LIBRARY 

Univ   -/sity  of 
c^uorn 
Irvine 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Gerald   Sherman 


&^ 


PR 

5305 


POETICAL  WORKS 


SIR   ffALTEK   SCOTT,  BART., 


LAV  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL,  MARMION,  LADY  OK  THB 

LAKE,  DON  RODERICK,  ROKEbY,   BALLADS, 

LYRICS,   AND    SONGS. 


WITH  A  LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


NEW    YORK: 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  200  BROADWAY. 
PHILADELPHIA: 

GEORGE  S.  APPLETON,  148  CHESTNUT  ST- 
MDCCCXLIII. 


CONTENTS. 


IfUIom  OF  TB»  AOTHOB,                  ...                              .  T 

POEM*. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,            ....  1 

Murm:  in,              .......  W 

Lady  of  the  Lake, 267 

Don  Roderick, 4«3 

Rolteby, 433 

BAZ^ADI  AND  LYBICAL  PIKCXS. 

Glemftnlas,  or  Lord  Ronald's  Coronach,        .           .           .  971 

Tne  Eve  of  Saint  John,     .....  978 

Cadynw  Custle, 5Bt 

The  Grey  Brother,             .....  590 

Thomas  the  Rhymer,  Part  I.             ....  565 

Part  II.  altered  from  ancient 

prophecies,     ...  598 

Part  III.  modem,     .  .  .600 

The  Fire  Kin*,        .                      ....  606 

Frederick  and  Alice,     .  .  .  .  .  .609 

The  WUd  Huntsman,       .....  £12 

ECHO*. 

War  Song  of  the  Royal  Edinburgh  Light  Dragoons,        ,  618 

The  Norman  Horse  Shoe,            ....  619 

The  Dying  Bard, G2I 

The  Maid  of  Toro, 628 


MEMOIR  OP  THE  AUTHOR, 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  -was  one  of  the  sons  of  Walter 
Scott  Esq.,  writer  to  the  signet,  by  Anne,  daughter 
of  Dr  John  Rutherford,  professor  of  the  practice  of 
medicine,  in  the  university  of  Edinburgh;  and  was 
born  in  that  city,  on  the  fifteenth  of  August,  1771, 
being  the  third  of  a  family  consisting  of  six  sons  and 
one  daughter.  His  paternal  grandfather,  Mr  Robert 
Scott,  fanner  at  Sandyknow,  m  the  vicinity  of  Smail- 
holm  Tower,  in  Roxburghshire  was  the  son  ot  Mr 
Walter  Scott,  a  younger  son  of  Walter  Scott  ot  Rae- 
burn  third  son  of  Sir  William  Scott  of  Harden. 

The  above-mentioned  Walter  lived  at  the  time  of 
the  restoration,  and  embraced  the  tenets  of  quaker- 
ism  •  but  for  this  he  endured  no  little  persecution, 
both  from  Presbyterian  and  Episcopalian  Walter, 
the  second  son  of  this  gentleman,  and  father  to  the 
novelist's  grandfather,  was  so  zealous  a  Jacobite  that 
he  made  a  vow  never  to  shave  his  beard  till  the 
exiled  house  of  Stuart  should  be  restored,  whence  he 
acquired  the  name  of  Beardie. 

Dr  John  Rutherford,  maternal  grandfather  to  the 
Eubject  of  this  memoir,  and  one  of  the  pupils  of  Boer- 
haave,  was  the  first  professor  of  the  practice  of  phy- 
sic in  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  to  which  office  he 
was  elected  in  1727,  and  which  he  resigned  in  ITbb, 
in  favour  of  the  celebrated  Dr  John  Gregory.  His 


«  MEMOIR  OP 

•wife,  the  maternal  grandmother  of  Sir  Walter,  was 
Jean  Svrinton,  daughter  of  Swinton  of  Swinton,  in 
Berwickshire,  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Scotland, 
and  at  one  period  very  powerful.  Sir  Walter  has  in- 
troduced a  chivalric  representative  of  this  race  into 
his  drama  of  "  Halidon  Hill." 

Existence  opened  upon  the  author  of  Waverley,  in 
one  of  the  duskiest  parts  of  the  northern  capital,  which 
•was  the  head  of  the  College  Wynd,  a  narrow  alley 
leading  from  the  Cowgate  to  the  gate  of  the  college ; 
and  before  he  was  two  years  old,  he  received  a  fall 
out  of  the  arms  of  a  careless  nurse,  which  injured  his 
right  foot,  and  rendered  him  lame  for  life ;  but  this 
accident  did  not  otherwise  affect  his  health  or  general 
activity.  His  mother,  who  had  a  taste  for  poetry,  and 
•was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  poets  of  her  day, 
particularly  Ramsay,  Blacklock,  Beattie,  and  Burns, 
is  said  to  have  shown  a  mother's  fondness  when  the 
boy  made  his  first  attempt  at  verse.  Before  Sir 
Walter  could  receive  any  impressions  from  the  roman- 
tic scenery  of  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh,  he  was  re- 
moved, on  account  of  the  delicacy  of  his  health,  to 
the  country,  and  lived  for  a  considerable  period  under 
the  charge  of  his  paternal  grandfather  at  Sandyknow. 
This  farm  is  situate  upon  a  rising  ground,  near  the 
bottom  of  Leader  Water,  and  overlooks  a  large  part 
of  the  vale  of  Tweed.  In  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  the  farm-house,  upon  a  rocky  foundation, 
stood  the  Border  fortlet  called  Smailholm  Tower, 
•which  possessed  many  features  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  young  poet.  At  the  "  evening  fire"  of  Sandy- 
know  also,  Sir  Walter  learned  much  of  that  Border 
lore  which  he  afterward1)  m-ought,  up  in  LIB  fictions. 
_  After  having  undergone  the  usual  routine  of  juve- 
nile instruction,  Sir  Walter  became  a  pupil  in  the 
High  School  of  Edinburgh ;  but  as  a  scholar,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  been  by  no  means  remarkable  for  pro- 
ficiency. There  is  his  own  authority  for  saying,  that 
even  in  the  exercise  of  metrical  translation,  he  fell 
far  short  of  some  of  his  companions  ;  although  others 
pretend  that  this  was  a  department  in  which  he  al- 
ways manifested  a  superiority.  There  is  one  anec- 
dote, however,  worth  preserving,  connected  -with  this 


THE  AUTHOR.  VU 

period.  It  is  said,  that  Burns,  -while  at  Professor 
Ferguson's  one  day,  was  struck  by  some  lines  attach- 
ed to  a  print  of  a  soldier  dying  in  the  snow.  He  in- 
quired by  whom  they  were  written — and  none  of  the 
company  having  returned  answer, — after  a  pause,  the 
youthful  poet  replied,  "  They  are  by  Langhorne."— 
Burns  fixed  his  large  bright  eyes  on  the  boy,  and 
striding  up  to  him,  said,  "  Jt  is  no  common  course  of 
reading  which  has  taught  you  this  :  this  lad  will  be 
heard  of  yet." 

With  regard  to  Sir  Walter's  inclination  for  ficti- 
tious story,  we  have  his  own  testimony,  at  the  distance 
of  nearly  half  a  century,  for  this  habit  of  his  early 
youth  :  "  I  must  refer  to  a  very  early  period  of  my 
life,  were  I  to  point  out  my  first  achievements  as  a 
tale-teller;  but  I  believe  some  of  my  old  school-fel- 
lows can  still  bear  witness  that  I  had  a  distinguished 
character  for  that  talent,  at  a  time  when  the  ap- 
plause of  my  companions  was  my  recompense  for  the 
disgraces  and  punishments  which  the  future  romance- 
wnter  incurred  for  being  idle  himself,  and  keeping 
others  idle,  during  hours  that  should  have  been  em- 
ployed on  our  tasks.  The  chief  enjoyment  of  my 
holidays  was  to  escape  with  a  chosen  friend,  who  had 
the  same  taste  w  ith  myself,  and  alternately  to  recite 
to  each  other  such  wild  adventures  as  we  were  able 
to  devise.  We  told,  each  in  turn,  interminable 
tales  of  knight-errantry,  and  battles,  and  enchant- 
ments, which  were  continued  from  one  day  to  another 
as  opportunity  offered,  without  our  ever  thinking  of 
bringing  them  to  a  conclusion.  As  we  observed  a 
strict  secrecy  on  the  subject  of  this  intercourse,  it  ac- 
quired all  the  character  of  concealed  pleasure :  and 
we  used  to  select  for  the  scenes  of  our  indulgence, 
long  walks  through  the  solitary  and  romantic  en- 
virons of  Arthur's  Seat,  Salisbury  Crags,  Braid  Hills, 
and  similar  places  in  the  vicinity  of  Edinburgh ;  and 
the  recollection  of  those  holidays  still  forms  an  oasis 
in  the  pilgrimage  which  I  have  to  look  back  upon." 

After  having  been  two  years  under  the  rector  of 
the  High  School,  Sir  Walter  entered  himself,  in  1783, 
for  the  Humanity  or  Latin  class  in  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  under  Professor  Hill,  and  the  Greek  class 


under  Professor  Dalzell ;  and  for  the  latter,  once 
more,  in  1784.  But  the  only  other  class  for  which 
he  seems  to  have  matriculated  at  the  College,  was 
that  of  Logic,  under  Professor  Bruce,  in  1785.  '  Al- 
though he  may  perhaps  have  attended  other  classes 
without  matriculation,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that 
his  irregular  health  produced  a  corresponding  irregu- 
larity in  his  academical  studies.  The  result,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  was,  that  he  entered  life  much  in  the  con- 
dition of  his  illustrious  prototype,  the  bard  of  Avon 
—that  is,  "with  a  little  Latin'and  less  Greek."  He 
had  now  given  up  the  character  of  a  student,  with  the 
intention  of  preparing  himself  for  the  bar,  when  he 
was  overtaken  by  a  severe  illness;  an  account  of 
•which,  and  its  important  effects  on  his  future  character 
and  course,  he  has  thus  given  in  the  autobiographical 
chapter  formerly  referred  to  : — 

"  When  boyhood  advancing  into  youth  required 
more  serious  studies  and  graver  cares,  :.  long  illness 
threw  me  back  on  the  kingdom  of  fiction,  as  if  it  were 
by  a  species  of  fatality.  My  indisposition  arose,  in 
part  at  least,  from  my  having  broken  a  blood-vessel ; 
and  motion  and  speech  were  for  a  long  time  pronoun- 
ced positively  dangerous.  For  several  weeks  I  was 
confined  strictly  to  bed,  during  which  time  I  was 
not  allowed  to  speak  above  a  whisper,  to  eat  more 
than  a  spoonful  or  two  of  boiled  rice,  or  to  have  more 
covering  than  one  thin  counterpane.  When  the 
reader  is  ^informed  that  I  was  at  this  time  a  growing 
youth,  with  the  spirits,  appetite,  and  impatience  ot 
fifteen,  and  suffered,  of  course,  greatly  under  this 
severe  regimen,  which  the  repeated  return  of  my  dis- 
order rendered  indispensable,  he  will  not  be  surprised 
that  I  was  abandoned  to  my  own  discretion,  so  far 
as  reading  (my  almost  sole  amusement)  was  concern- 
ed, and  still  less  so,  that  I  abused  the  indulgence 
•which  left  my  time  so  much  at  my  own  disposal. 

'I  There  was  at  this  time  a  circulating  library  at 
Edinburgh,  founded,  I  believe,  by  the  celebrated 
Allan  Ramsay,  which,  besides  containing  a  most  re- 
spectable collection  of  books  of  every  description,  was, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  peculiarly  rich  in  works 
of  fiction.  It  exhibited  specimens  of  every  kind,  from 


THE  AUTHOR. 

omances  of  chivalry,  and  the  ponderous  folios  of 
and  Cassandra,  down  to  the  mort  approved 
WOI-KS  of  later  times.     I  was  plunged  into  this  great 
ocean  of  reading  without  compass  or  pilot ;  and  i 
when  some  on&ad  the  charity  to  play  at  chess  with 
roe    I  was  allowed  to  do  nothing  save  read,  from 
morning  to  night.    I  was,  in  kindness  and  pity  which 
jperW erroneous, however  natural, permitted  to 
select  my  subjects  of  study  at  my  own  pleasure,  upon 
he  si™  principle  that  the  humours  of  childrenare 
indulged  to  keep  them  out  of  mischief.    As  my  taste 
and  appetite  were  gratified  in  nothing  else,  I  indem- 
nified myself  by  becoming  a  glutton  of  books.     Ac- 
cordingly, I  believe  I  read  dmost  all  the  ^.romances, 
old  plavs,  and  epic  poetry,  in  that  formidable  collec- 
tion  and  no  doubt  was  unconsciously  amassing  ma. 
terials  for  the  task  in  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  be 

S° '^At  thT&ame  time  I  did  not  in  all  respects  abuse 
the   license  permitted   me.     Familiar  acquaintance 
with  the  specious  miracles  of  fiction  brought  with  it 
Tome  degree  of  satiety,  and  I  began  by  degrees  to 
eek  in  histories,  memoirs,  voyages  and  tr»ve«  and 
the  like,  events  nearly  as  wonderfu    u .those  *nic 
were  the  work  of  the  imagination,  with  the  additional 
Advantage  that  they  were,  at  least,  in  a  great  measure 
true.     The  lapse  of  nearly  two  years,  during  which  I 
was  left  to  the  service  of  my  own  free  will,  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  temporary  residence  m  the  country  where 
I  wa«  again  very  lonely,  but  for  the  amusement  which 
I  derived  fromagooi  though  oU-&.Honed  library. 
The  va<me  and  wild  use  which  I  made  of  this  advan- 
tage I  Lnnot  describe  better  than  by  referring  my 
reader  to  the  desultory  studies  of  Waverley  in  a  simi- 
lar situation  :  the  passages  concerning  whosejeadmg 
were  imitated  from  recollections  of  my  own. 

His  two  years'  residence  in  the  country  completely 
restored  his  health,  and  as  it  was  necessary  to  pursue 
his  studies  for  the  bar,  he  attended  the  lectures  of 
professor  Dick  on  civil  law,  in  the  college,  and  per- 
formed the  duties  of  a  writer's  apprentice  under _his 
father.  In  alluding  to  this  period  he  says: 
severe  studies  necessary  to  render  me  tit  for  my  pro- 
fession, occupied  the  greatest  part  of  my  time,  and  fc 


MEMOIR  OP 


society  of  my  friends  and  companions,  who  wero 
about  to  enter  life  along  with  me,  filled  up  the  inter- 
val with  the  usual  amusements  of  young  men.  I  was 
in  a  situation  which  rendered  serious  labour  indispen- 
sable ;  for,  neither  possessing,  on  the  one  hand,  any 
of  those  peculiar  advantages  which  are  supposed  to 
favour  a  hasty  advance  in  the  profession  of  the  law 
nor  being  on  the  other  hand  exposed  to  unusual  ob- 
stacles  to  interrupt  my  progress,  I  might  reasonably 
expect  to  succeed  according  to  the  greater  or  less  de- 
gree of  trouble  which  I  should  take  to  qualify  myself 
as  a  pleader." 

On  the  10th  of  July,  1792,  when  just  on  the  point 
of  completing  his  twenty-first  year,  he  was  called  to 
the  bar  as  an  advocate,  and  enabled,  by  the  affluence 
of  his  father,  to  begin  life  in  an  elegant  house  in  a 
fashionable  part  of  the  town ;  but  it  was  not  his  lot 
to  acquire  either  wealth  or  distinction  at  the  bar. 
The  truth  is,  his  mind  was  not  yet  emancipated  from 
that  enthusiastic  pursuit  of  knowledge  which  had  dis- 
tinguished his  youth.  His  necessities,  were  not  so 
great  as  to  make  an  exclusive  application  to  his  pro- 
fession imperative  ;  and  he  therefore  seemed  destined 
to  join,  what  a  sarcastic  barrister  has  termed,  "  the 
ranks  of  the  gentlemen  who  are  not  anxious  for  busi- 
ness '  Although  he  could  speak  readily  and  fluently 
at  the  bar,  his  intellect  was  not  at  all  of  a  forensic 
cast.  He  appeared  to  be  too  much  of  the  abstract 
and  unworldly  scholar,  to  assume  readily  the  habits  of 
an  adroit  pleader ;  and,  even  although  he  had  been 
perfectly  competent  to  the  duties,  it  is  a  question  if 
his  external  aspect  and  general  reputation  would  have 
permitted  the  generality  of  agents  to  intrust  them  to 
his  hands. 

At  the  time  when  Sir  Walter  entered  public  life 
almost  all  the  respectable  part  of  the  community  were' 
indignant  at  the  hostile  menaces  of  France ;  and  nu- 
merous bodies  of  volunteer  militia  were  consequently 
formed  to  meet  the  threatened  invasion.  In  the  be- 
ginning of  1797,  the  gentlemen  of  Mid- Lothian  imi- 
tated the  example,  by  imbodying  themselves  in  a 
cavalry  corps,  under  the  name  of  the  Royal  Mid- 
Lothian  Regiment  of  Cavalry ;  and  Mr  Walter  Scott 
had  the  honour  to  be  appointed  its  adjutant,  for  which 


THE  AUTHOR. 

nffice  his  lameness  was  considered  no  bar  He  was 
»  very  zeaTous  officer,  and  highly  popular  m  the  regt- 
»Int  on  account  of  his  extreme  f^^L"* 
Bowers  of  social  entertainment;  and  his  appointment 
an  intimacy  with  the  most  considerable  man 


of  his  life,  he  has  thus  given  an  account  of  the  cir- 


US  of 

" 


,» 

.higher  degree  of  repuM.on  th,« 

eonHrmed,  l»d  now  lo*  h,s  lepot.tioi 

ough  h«  .till  li;.d»M»«l,,,p.*rf 


Elt».  the  «n.  »  direct  th. 

S  a  cis  was  formed,  of  six  or  seven  mtimate 
Kds,  who  proposed  to  make  themselves  acquainted 
'vith  the  GerWn  language.  They  were  m  the  hab^ 
of  living  much  together,  and  the  time  they  spent  in 
thi  stuly  was  felt  as  a  period  of  great  amusement 
One  source  of  this  diversion  was  the  ^'"-*  °  °™ 
of  their  number,  the  present  author,  who  ad  vers 
the  necessary  toils  of  grammar  and  its  rules,  was  11 


ill  MEMOIR  OF 

the  practice  of  fighting  his  way  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  German  by  his  acquaintance  with  the  Scottish 
and  Anglo-Saxon  dialects,  and,  of  course,  frequently 
committing  blunders,  which  were  not  lost  on  his  more 
accurate  and  more  studious  companions." 

About  this  period — that  is,  in  the  year  1793  or 
1794 — Mrs  Barbauld  paid  a  visit  to  Edinburgh.  She 
lived  in  the  house  of  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  and 
one  evening  she  astonished  the  family  circle  to  a  great 
degree,  by  reading  aloud  a  translation  of  Burger's 
"Lenore,1'  executed  by  Mr  Taylor  of  Norwich.  A 
friend  who  had  heard  it,  told  Sir  Walter  what  im- 
pression the  recitation  had  occasioned,  and  repeated 
to  him  the  rude  but  striking  passage,  descriptive  01 
the  supernatural  speed  of  the  ghostly  horseman  and 
his  mistress : — 

"Tramp,  tramp,  along  the  land  they  rode, 

Splash,  splosh,  alunjf  the  sea, 

Hurra,  the  dead  can  rule  apace, 

Dost  fear  to  ride  with  uie  ?" 

Inspired  with  a  strong  desire  to  see  the  original,  Sir 
Walter,  with  great  difficulty,  obtained  a  copy  from 
Germany,  through  the  kind  offices  of  Mrs  Scott  of 
Harden,  who  was  a  German  by  birth.  "  The  per- 
usal," says  Sir  Walter,  "  rather  exceeded  than  disap- 
pointed the  expectations  which  the  report  of  Mr 
Stewart's  family  had  induced  me  to  form ;  and  the 
book  had  only  been  a  few  hours  in  my  possession, 
when  I  found  myself  giving  an  animated  account  of 
the  poem  to  a  friend,  and  rashly  added  a  promise  to 
furnish  a  copy  in  English  ballad  verse.  I  well  recol- 
lect that  I  began  my  task  after  supper,  and  finished 
it  about  daybieak  the  next  morning,  (it  consists  of 
sixty-six  stanzas,)  by  which  time  the  ideas  which  the 
task  had  a  tendency  to  summon  up  were  rather  of  an 
uncomfortable  character." 

The  young  poet  was  so  much  pleased  with  his  suc- 
cess on  this  occasion,  as  to  attempt  a  few  more  trans- 
lations from  Burger,  particularly  of  the  poem  entitled 
"Der  Wilde  Jager."  "In  the  course  of  a  few 
•weeks,"  says  he,  "  my  own  vanity,  and  the  favourable 
opinion  of  my  friends,  interested  by  the  revival  of  a 
species  of  poetry,  containing  a  germ  of  popularity,  of 
which,  perhaps,  they  were  not  themselves  aware, 


THE  AUTHOR.  illl 

urged  me  to  the  decisive  step  of  sending  a  selection, 
at  least,  of  my  translations  to  the  press,  to  save  the 
numerous  applications  which  were  made  for  copies. 
When  was  an  author  deaf  to  such  a  recommendation  ? 
In  1796,  the  present  author  was  prevailed  on,  by  re- 
quest of  friends,  to  indulge  his  own  vanity,  hy  publish- 
-ing  the  translation  of  *  Lenore,*  with  that  of  '  The 

W  ild  Huntsman,'  in  a  thin  quarto The  fate 

of  this,  my  first  publication,  was  by  no  means  flatter- 
ing. I  distributed  so  many  copies  among  my  friends, 
as  materially  to  interfere  with  the  sale ;  and  the  num- 
ber of  translations  which  appeared  in  England  about 
the  same  time,  including  that  of  Mr  Taylor,  to  whom 
I  had  been  so  much  indebted,  and  which  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  were  sufficient  to 

exclude  a  provincial  writer  from  competition 

In  a  word,  my  adventure  proved  a  dead  loss ;  and  a 
great  part  of  the  edition  was  condemned  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  trunkmaker."  This  failure,  instead  of 
disposing  the  new-fledged  bard  to  retire  from  the  field 
of  letters,  rather  tempted  him  to  proceed,  in  order 
"  to  show  the  world  that  it  had  neglected  something 
•worth  notice."  He  pursued  the  German  language 
keenly,  procured  more  books  in  that  language  from 
their  native  country,  and  extended  his  views  to  the 
dramatic  authors,  BO  that  early  in  1799,  he  published 
"  Goetz  of  Berlichingen,  a  tragedy  translated  from 
Goethe." 

The  next  efforts  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  of  higher 
promise  and  power,  but  still  they  wer«  as  much  anti- 
quarian as  poetical ;  we  allude  to  his  "  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Border,"  and  his  "  Sir  Tristrem."  The 
vein  of  poetry  was  by  this  time  discovered,  and  the 
request  of  Monk  Lewis  to  contribute  to  his  Tales  of 
Wonder,  soon  determined  Scott's  career.  "  Glenfin- 
las,"  "  The  Baron  of  Smaylhome,"  and  "  The  Fire- 
King,"  were  the  gems  of  the  book ;  and  poor  Lewis, 
then  at  the  head  of  the  ballad  school  of  diablerie, 
found  himself  in  the  predicament  of  a  sorcerer  who 
has,  evoked  a  demon  so  much  more  powerful  than 
himself  as  to  deprive  him  of  his  wand.  From  that 
period  the  destiny  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  fixed— he 
Bet  up,  to  use  his  own  words,  like  a  hawker,  on  the 
strength  of  a  couple  of  ballads. 


On  Christmas  eve,  1797,  Sir  Walter  -was  married 
to  Miss  Margaret  Carpenter,  daughter  of  the  deceased 
John  Carpenter,  Esq.,  of  the  city  of  Lyons,  a  gentle- 
man who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  excesses  of  tlie 
French  revolution.  Soon  after  his  marriage,  he 
established  himself,  during  the  vacations,  in  a  de- 
lightful retreat  at  Laswade,  on  the  hanks  of  the 
Esk,  about  five  miles  to  the  south  of  Edinburgh. 

For  some  years  before  the  end  of  the  century,  Sir 
Walter  had  been  in  the  habit  of  making,  periodically, 
what  he  called  "  raids  "  into  Liddesdale,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  collecting  the  ballad  poetry  of  that  romantic 
and  most  primitive  district.  He  travelled  thither, 
from  Roxburghshire,  in  an  old  gig,  which  also  con- 
tained his  early  friend  and  local  guide,  Mr  Robert 
Shortreed  of  Jedburgh,  sheriff-substitute  of  the  county. 
Introduced  by  this  gentleman,  Sir  Walter  paid  visits 
to  many  of  the  farmers  and  small  proprietors,  among 
•whom,  or  among  their  retainers,  he  picked  up  several 
capital  specimens  of  the  popular  poetry  of  the  district, 
descriptive  of  adventures  of  renown  which  took  place 
in  the  days  of  yore,  besides  impressing  his  mind  with 
that  perception  of  the  charade:  ol  he  people,  which 
he  afterwards  imbodied  in  his  Dandle  IHnmont.  Mr 
Shortreed,  who  was  a  most  intelligent  person,  used 
to  relate  an  amusing  anecdote,  illustrative  of  the  shv 
manners  of  this  sequestered  race.  On  visiting  a  par- 
ticular person,  whose  name  and  place  of  residence 
are  sufficiently  indicated  by  his  usual  designation  of 
"Willie  o1  Milburn,"  the  honest  farmer  was  from 
home,  but  returned  while  Sir  Walter  was  tying  up 
his  horse  in  the  stable.  On  being  told  by  Mr  SEort- 
reed  that  an  Edinburgh  advocate  was  come  to  see 
him,  he  expressed  great  alarm,  and  even  terror  as  to 
the  character  of  his  visitor,— the  old  fear  of  the  law 
being  still  so  very  rife  in  Liddesdale  as  even  to  ex- 
tend to  the  simple  person  of  any  of  its  administra- 
tors. What  idea  Willie  had  formed  of  an  Edinburgh 
barrister  cannot  exactly  be  denned;  but,  having 
gone  out  to  reconnoitre,  he  soon  after  came  back  with 
a  countenance  of  so  mirthful  a  cast  as  evidently  be- 
spoke a  relieved  mind.  "  Is  yon  the  advocate  ?"  he 
inquired  of  Mr  Shortreed.  "  Yes,  Willie,"  answered 
that  gentleman.  "  Deil  o'  me's  feared  for  them 


THE  AUTHOR.  xv 

then,"  cried  the  farmer;  "yens  just  a  chield  like 
oursells !"  ,  . 

It  was  not  alone  necessary  on  such  occasions  to 
-write  down  old  ballads  from  recitation,  but  to  store 
up  tbe  materials  of  notes  by  which  the  ballads  them- 
selves might  be  illustrated.     On  this  account  Scott 
visited  many  scenes  alluded  to  in  the  metrical  narra- 
tives and  opened  his  ear  to  all  the  local  anecdotes  and 
legends  which  were  handed  down  by  the  peasantry 
He  had  a  most  peculiar,  and  even  mysterious  mode  of 
committing  these  to  memory.     He  used  neither  pen- 
cil nor  pen,  but  seizing  upon  any  twig  or  piece  of 
•wood  which  he  could  tind,  marked  it  by  means  of  a 
cla*p-knife,  with  various  notches,  representing  parti- 
cular ideas  in  his  own  mind ;  and  these  afterwards 
•were  strung  up  before  him  in  his  study  at  home,  like 
the  nick-sticks  over  a  baker's  desk,  or  the  string-al- 
phabet of  a  blind  man.     He  seemed  to  have  invented 
this  algebraic  system  of  memorandum-making  ior 
his  own  use  ;  and,  to  all  appearance,  was  as  conver- 
sant with  its  mysteries  as  he  could  be  with  the  more 
common  accomplishment  of  writing.    When  his  own 
pockets  were  inconveniently  stuffed  with  notes    he 
would  request  Mr  Shortreed  to  take  charge  of  a  few ; 
and  often  that  gentleman  has   discharged  as  much 
timber  from  his  various  integuments,  as,  to  use  his 
own  phrase,  quoted  from  Burns,  might  have  mended 
a  mill      The  truth  is,  Sir  Walter  was  blessed  with  a 
memory  of  extraordinary  power,  so  that  a  very  slight 
notation  was  necessary  to  bring  to  his  recollection 
anything  he  had  ever  heard.    The  collections  of  Scott 
in  Liddesdale,  joined  to  various  contributions  from 
reciters  in  other  parts  of  the  country,  formed  his  nrst 
publication  of  note,  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border.     This  work  which  was  issued  in  1802,  dis- 
played a  vast  quantity  of  curious  and  abstruse  learn- 
ing •  and   in  particular,  a  most  intimate  acquaintance 
with  a  district  of  Scotland  which  had  hitherto  re- 
ceived hardly  any  attention  either  from  the  historian 
or  the  antiquary.    Previous  to  this  period— in  Decem- 
ber 1799— he  had  been  appointed  sheriff  of  Selkirk- 
shire, an  office  which  rendered  it  necessary  that  he 
should  reside  a  certain  part  of  the  year  in  Selkirk- 
ehire  •  and  he  therefore  engaged  the  house  of  Asnie- 


xvi  MEMOIR  OF 

steil,  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  which  continued  to 
be  his  country  residence  till  he  removed  to  Abbots- 
ford.  In  1804,  Mr  Scott  increased  his  reputation  as 
a  luerary  antiquary,  by  publishing  the  ancient  min- 
strel tale  of  "  Sir  Tribtrem,"  which  he  showed,  in  a 
learned  disquisition,  to  have  been  composed  by 
Thomas  of  Ercildoune,  commonly  called  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  who  flourished  in  the  thirteenth  century. 
By  this  publication,  it  was  established  that  the  ear- 
liest existing  poem  in  the  English  language  was  writ- 
ten by  a  native  of  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland. 

But  for  the  ensuing  circumstances  of  the  poet's 
life,  it  will  be  best  to  resort  to  his  own  narrative, 
introductory  to  a  late  edition  of  the  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel. 

The  history  of  the  rise  and  progress  of  this  poem, 
the  author  has  himself  thus  related  : — 

"The  lovely  young  countess  of  Dalkeith.  after- 
wards Harriet,  duchess  of  Buccleuch,  had  come  to 
the  land  of  her  husband,  with  the  desire  of  making 
herself  acquainted  with  its  traditions  and  customs. 
She  soon  heard  enough  of  Border  lore :  among  others, 
an  aged  gentleman  of  property,  near  Langholm,  (Mr 
Stoddart,)  communicated  to  her  ladyship  the  story  of 
Gilpin  Homer,  a  tradition  in  which  the  narrator, 
and  many  more  of  that  county,  were  firm  believers. 
The  young  countess,  much  delighted  with  the  legend, 
and  the  gravity  and  full  confidence  with  which  it  was 
told,  enjoined  it  on  me  as  a  task  to  compose  a  ballad 
en  the  subject.  Of  course,  to  hear  was  to  obey  ;  and 
thus  the  goblin  story,  objected  to  by  several  critics 
as  an  excrescence  upon  the  poem,  was  in  fact,  the  oc- 
casion of  its  being  written. 

"  It  was,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  more  than 
a  year  after  Mr  Stoddart's  visit,  that,  by  way  of  ex- 
periment, I  composed  the  first  two  or  three  stanzas 
of  '  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.1  I  was  shortly 
afterwards  visited  by  two  intimate  friends,  whom  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  consulting  on  my  attempts  at  com- 
position, having  equal  confidence  in  their  sound  taste 
and  friendly  sincerity.  In  this  specimen  I  had.  in 
the  phrase  of  the  Highland  servant,  packed  all  that 
was  my  own,  at  least,  for  I  had  also  included  a  line 
of  invocation,  a  little  softened,  from  Coleridge — 


THE  AUTHOR,  XTO 

1  Mary,  mother,  shield  us  well.' 

As  neither  of  my  friends  said  much  to  me  on  the 
subject  of  the  stanzas  I  showed  them  before  their  de- 
parture, I  had  no  doubt  that  their  disgust  had  been 
greater  than  their  good  nature  chose  to  express. 
Looking  upon  them,  therefore,  as  a  failure,  I  threw 
the  manuscript  into  the  fire,  and  thought  as  little 
more  as  I  could  of  the  matter.  Some  time  after- 
wards, I  met  one  of  my  two  counsellors,  who  inquired, 
•with  considerable  apneaiance  of  interest,  about  the 
progress  of  the  romance  I  had  commenced,  and  was 
greatly  surprised  at  learning  its  fate.  He  confessed 
that  neither  he  nor  our  mutud  friend  had  been  at 
first  able  to  give  a  precise  opinion  on  a  poem  so  much 
out  of  the  common  road ;  but  that  as  they  walked 
home  together  to  the  city,  they  had  talked  much  on 
the  subject,  and  the  result  was  an  earnest  desire  that 
I  would  proceed  with  the  composition. 

"  The  poem,  being  once  licensed  by  the  critics  as 
fit  for  the  market,  was  soon  finished,  proceeding  at 
about  the  rate  of  a  canto  per  week.  There  was,  in- 
deed, little  occasion  for  pause  or  hesitation,  when  a 
troublesome  rhyme  might  be  accommodated  by  an  al- 
teration of  the  stanza,  or  where  an  incorrect  measure 
might  be  remedied  by  a  variation  of  the  rhyme. 

"  It  was  finally  published  in  1805,  and  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  first  work  in  which  the  writer,  who  has 
been  since  so  voluminous,  laid  his  claim  to  be  con- 
sidered as  an  original  author." 

During  the  year  1806,  Sir  Walter  collected  his 
oriffinal  compositions  in  the  ballad  style  into  a  small 
volume,  which  he  published  under  the  title  of  "Bal- 
lads and  Lyrical  Pieces."  In  1808,  he  published  his 
second  poem  of  magnitude,  "  Marmion,"  in  which, 
we  are  informed  by  himself,  he  took  great  pains,  and 
was  disposed  to  take  still  more,  if  the  distresses  of  a 
friend  nad  not  "  rendered  it  convenient  at  least,  if 
not  necessary,  to  hasten  its  publication.  By  good 
fortune,"  says  Sir  Walter,  "  the  novelty  of  the  sub- 
ject, and,  if  'I  may  say  so,  some  force  and  vivacity  of 
description,  were  allowed  to  atone  for  many  imperfec- 
tions. Thus,  the  second  experiment  was,  in  my  case, 
decidedly  successful." 


MEMOIR  OF 


••  r7  CT 

thereafter  appeared  «  Th  Works  5  John"  n^ 
in  eighteen  flumes,  Ulustoted  with  Not  "  SSri' 
00,  Critical,  and  Explanatory  and  a  1  Mfo  ^ 
Author,  by  Walter  Scott,  Esq^'  'n  1809  hi  fl  '  I 


Fortunately  for  all  the  lovers  of  poetry,  the  m, 

th 


the 


THE  AUTHOR. 

Its  progress  was  for  some  time  slow ;  but,  after  the 
first  two  or  three  months,  its  popularity  increased  in 
a  degree  which  must  have  satisfied  the  expectations 
of  the  author,  had  these  been  far  more  sanguine 
than  he  -j»ver  entertained.  To  Waverley  succeeded, 
in  1815  Guy  Mannering;  in  1816,  the  Antiquary, 
and  the  First  Series  of  the  Tales  of  my  Landlord, 
containing  the  Black  Dwarf  and  Old  Mortality ;  in 
1818,  Rob  Roy,  and  the  Second  Series  of  the  lalea 
of  my  Landlord,  containing  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian  ;  and,  in  1819,  the  Third  Series  of  the  Tales 
of  my  Landlord,  containing  the  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor  and  a  Legend  of  Montrose. 

Having  now  drawn  upon  public  curiosity  to  the  ex- 
tent  of  tw-lve  volumes   under  two    incognitos,  he 
thought  it  necessary  to  adopt  a  third ;  and,  according- 
ly he  intended  Ivanhoe,  which  appeared  in  the  be- 
ginning of  1820,  to  come  forth  as  the  first  work  of  a 
new  candidate  for  public  favour ;  namely,  Lawrence 
Templeton.     From  this  design  he  was  diverted  by 
the  publication  of  a  novel  at  London,  pretending  to 
be  a  fourth  series  of  the  Tales  of  my  Landlord.     It 
-was  therefore  judged  necessary  that  Ivauhoe  should 
appear  as   a  veritable  production  of  the  author  of 
Waverley.    To  it  succeeded,  in  the  course  of  the  same 
year    the    Monastery   and   the   Abbot,   which  were 
reckoned  the  least  meritorious  of  all  his  prose  tales. 
In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1821  appeared  Keml- 
worth    making   twelve  volumes,  if  not  written,  at 
least  published,  in  as  many  months.    In  1822  he  pro- 
duced the  Pirate  and  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel ;  in  1823, 
Peveril  of  the  Peak  and  Quentin  Durward;  in  1824 
St  Ronan's  Well  and  Redgauntlet ;  in  1825,  Tales  of 
the    Crusaders;    in    1826,    Woodstock;    in    1827, 
Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,  first  series ;  in  1828 
Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,  second  series ;  in  182J, 
Anne  of  Geierstein  ;  and,  in  1831,  a  fourth  series  of 
Tales  of  my  Landlord,  in  four  volumes,  containing 
two   tales,    respectively   entitled,  Count    Robert   of 
Paris,  and  Castle  Dangerous.     The  whole  of  these 
novels,  except  where  otherwise  specified,  consisted  of 
three  volumes,  and,  with  those  formerly  enumerated, 
make  up  the  amount  of  his  fictitious  prose  composi- 
tions to  the  enormous  sum  of  seventy-four  volumes. 


Throughout  the  whole  of  his  career,  hoth  as  a  poet 
and  novelist,  Sir  Walter  was  in  the  habit  of  turning 
aside  occasionally  to  less  important  avocations  of  n 
literary  character.    He  was  a  contributor  to  the  Edin« 
burgh  Review  during  the  first  few  years  of  its  exis- 
tence, and  to  the  Quarterly  Review  he  was  a  con- 
siderable contributor,  especially  for  the  last  five  or 
six_  years  of  his  life,  duriug  which,  that  excellent 
periodical  was  conducted  by  his  son-in-law,  Mr  Lock- 
hart.     To  the  Supplement  of  the  Sixth  Edition  of 
.the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  he  contributed  the  arti- 
cles  "  Chivalry,"   "  Romance,"  and  the  '•  Drama  " 
In  1814,  he  edited  "The  Works  of  Swift,"  in  19 
volumes,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author ;  a  heavy  work, 
but  which,  nevertheless,  required  a  reprint  some  years 
afterwards.     In  1814,  Sir  Walter  gave  his  name  and 
an  elaborate  introductory  essay  to  a  work,  entitled 
"  Border  Antiquities,"  (two  vols.,  4to,)  which  con- 
sisted of  engravings  of  the  principal  antique  objects 
on  both  sides  of  the  Border,  accompanied  by  descrip- 
tive letter-press.     In  1815,  he  made  a  tour  through 
France  and  Belgium,  visiting  the  scene  of  the  recent 
victory  over  Napoleon.     The  result  was  a  lively  tra- 
veller's volume,  under  the  title  of  "Paul's  Letters  to 
ais  Kinsfolk,"  and  a  poem  styled  "  The  Field  of 
Waterloo."     In  the  same  year,  he  joined  with  Mr 
Robert  Jameson  and  Mr  Henry  Weber,  in  composing 
•»  quarto  on  Icelandic  Antiquities.     In  1819,  he  pub- 
lished "  An  Account  of  the  Regalia  of  Scotland,"  and 
undertook  to  furnish  the  letter-press  to  a  second  col- 
lection of  engravings,  under  the  title  of  "  Provincial 
Antiquities  and  Picturesque  Scenery  of  Scotland" 
In  1822,  Sir  Walter  published  "Trivial  Poems  and 
Triolets,  by  P.  Carey,  with  a  Preface  ;"  and,  in  1822 
appeared  his  dramatic  poem  of  "  Halidon  Hill."    In 
the  succeeding  year,  he  contributed  a  smaller  drama- 
tic poem,  under  the  title  of  "  Macduff's  Cross,"  to  a 
collection  of  Miss  Joanna  Baillie.     The  sum  of  his 
remaining  poetical  works  may  here  be  made  up   by 
adding  "The  Doom  of  Devorgoil,"  and  "The  Auchin- 
Y™"e  Tragedy,"  which  appeared  in  one  volume  in 
1VM.    It  cannot  be  said  of  any  of  these  compositions, 
that  they  have  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  pub- 
lic.    In  consequence  of  these  high  literary  achieve- 


THE  AUTHOR. 


tnents,  his  Majesty  George  IV.  was  pleased,  in  March, 
1K20,  to  create  him  a  baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
bfling  the  first  to  whom  he  had  extended  that  honour 
after  his  accession  to  the  crown. 

In  1825,  Mr  Constable  having  projected  a  cheap 
series  of  original  and  selected  works,  engaged  Sir 
Walter  to  compose  a  "Life  of  Bonaparte."  This 
work  was  in  progress,  when,  in  January,  1826, 
Messrs  Constable  &  Co.,  became  bankrupt.  For 
many  years  before,  Sir  Walter  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  drawing  bills,  at  long  dates,  upon  his  publishers,' 
as  payment  of  the  copy-right  of  his  works  ;  and,  as  he 
occasionally  was  obliged  with  their  acceptances  on 
the  strength  of  works  not  yet  written,  he  was  in  some 
measure  compelled,  by  a  sense  of  gratitude,  to  give 
his  name  to  other  obligations,  which  were  incurred 
by  the  house,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  up  Jthe  origi- 
nal engagements.  Thus,  although  Sir  Walter  ap- 
peared to  receive  payment  for  his  literary  labours  in 
a  very  prompt  manner,  he  was  pledging  away  his 
name  all  the  while,  for  sums  perhaps  not  rauch  in- 
ferior in  amount  to  those  which  he  realized  ;  so  that, 
in  the  long  run,  he  stood  engaged  to  certain  banks, 
in  behalf  of  Messrs  Constable  &  Co.,  for,  it  is  said, 
about  £60,000;  in  other  words,  a  great  portion  of 
the  earnings  of  his  literary  life. 

The  blow  was  endured  with  a  magnanimity  wor- 
thy of  the  greatest  writer  of  the  age.  In  the  mar- 
riage contract  of  Sir  Walter's  eldest  son,  the  estate 
of  Abbotsford  had  been  settled  upon  the  young  pair, 
and  it  was  therefore  beyond  the  reach  of  his  creditors. 
By  this  legal  arrangement,  indeed.  Sir  Walter  had 
hardly  any  property  to  present  against  the  immense 
amount  of  his  debts.  There  was  one  asset,  however, 
which  greatly  surpassed  the  worldly  goods  of  most 
debtors  —  his  head.  "  Gentlemen,"  said  he  to  the  claim- 
ants using  the  Spanish  proverb,  "  time  and  I  against 
two.  Let  me  take  this  good  ally  into  company,  and  I 
believe  I  shall  be  able  to  pay  you  every  farthing."  He 
further  proposed,  in  their  behalf,  to  insure  the  sum  of 
£22,000  upon  his  life.  A  trust  deed  was  accordingly 
executed,  in  which  he  was  considered  a  member  of 
the  printing  firm  of  James  Ballantyne  &  Co,  ;  and  it 
appeared  that  the  whole  debts,  including  what  must 


MEMOIR  OP 


yond   vhat   was    oririnaHv 
autumn  of  1826  he  faid  ^v' 
himself  with  sev^J   ocal  ,nd 
saryfor  his  work      On  tit 
in  the  kindest  rnanner  bvK 
ded  Charts  X  F  SS& 
appeared  in  the  sumo 
produced)  it  is 


,  - 

,  ^P^ted-      In   th« 

-  ,°  ^  *"  a^Uaint 
'St.°n?1  details  neces- 

^10"       WaS  received 
ftl  march'  the 


to  the  affairs  of  the 

1  h 


bought  by  Mr  Robert  cldPIlf  - 

Archibald  Constable  &  S  >  a  '/«  4^  Jate  «rm 
pose  of  republishing  the  w'hoie  ,%'  lf°r  the  P1"" 
series  of  volumes  illustraW  h  ?  ^f  Uniform 
and  amended  in  man±S  fbt^"0  f  •  l"^  prefaces' 
of  the  author.  Sir  \V  C  J^6  fin'shmg  touchea 

^  I**  the  profits,  y 


THE  AUTHOR. 


xxiii 


aid  This  was  a  most  fortunate  design.  The  new 
edition  began  to  appear  in  June,  1829;  and  such  was 
its  adaptation-to  the  public  convenience,  and  the 
eagerness  of  all  ranks  of  people  to  contribute  towards 
the  reconstruction  of  the  author's  fortunes,  that  the 
sale  soon  reached  an  average  of  twenty-three  thou- 
sand copies,  which  is  a  greater  sale  than  any  previous 
publication  had  ever  obtained.  ,,.,,,,,  fi  L 

In  November,  1828,  Sir  Walter  published  the  first 
part  of  a  juvenile  history  of  Scotland,  under  the  title 
of  "  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,"  being  addressed  to  his 
grandchild,  John  Hugh  Lockhart,  whom  he  typified 
under  the  appellation  of  Hugh  Littleiohn,  Esq  In 

1829  appeared  the  second,  and,  m  1830,  the  third 
and  concluding  series  of  this  charming  book       In 

1830  he  also  contributed  a  graver  history  ot  bcotland, 
in  two  volumes,  to  the  periodical  work  called     Gard- 
ner's Cabinet  Cyclopaedia."     In  the  same  year,  ap- 
peared his  Letters  on  Demonology  and  Witchcraft, 
as  a  volume  of  Mr  Murray's  "  Family  Library.      The 
profits  of  these  various  publications,  but  especially 
His  share  of  the  profits  of  the  new  edition  of  his  novels, 
enabled  him,  towards  the  end  of  the  year  1830,  to 
pay  a  dividend  of  three  shillings  in  the  pound  which, 
but  for  the  accumulation  of  interest,  would  hav e  re- 
duced his  debts  to  nearly  one-half.    Of  £54,000  which 
had  now  been  paid,  all  except  six  or  seven  thousand 
had  been  produced  by  his  own  literary  labours  •  a  act 
which  fixes  the  revenue  of  his  intellect  for  the  last 
four  or  five  years  at  nearly  £10,000  a-year.    Besides 
this  sum,  Sir  Walter  had  also  paid  up  the  premium 
of  the  policy  upon  his  life,  which  as  already  men- 
tioned, secured  zpost  obit  interest  of  £22,000  to  his 
creditors.  .. 

During  the  succeeding  winter,  symptoms  ot  para- 
lysis a  disease  hereditary  in  his  family,  began  to  be 
manifested,  which  became  gradually  more  violent.  In 
the  following  autumn,  his  physicians  recommended  a 
residence  in  Italy,  as  a  means  of  delaying  the  ap- 
proaches of  his  illness;  and,  by  the  kind  offices  of  Capt. 
Basil  Hall,  permission  was  obtained  for  him  to  sail  in 
his  Majesty's  ship,  the  Barham,  which  was  then  fatting 
out  for  Malta.  He  set  sail  from  Portsmouth,  on  the 
27th  of  October,  and  visited  Malta,  Naples,  and  Rome. 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


But  feeling  that  his  strength  was  rapidly  decaying, 
he  determined  upon  returning  to  his  native  country, 
in  order  that  his  hones  might  not  be  laid  (to  use  the 
language  of  his  own  favourite  minstrelsy)  ''  far  from 
the  Tweed."  His  journey  was  performed  too  rapidly 
for  his  strength.  For  six  days  he  travelled  seventeen 
hours  a-day.  The  consequence  was,  that,  in  passing 
down  the  Rhine,  he  experienced  a  severe  attack  of 
his  malady,  which  produced  complete  insensibility, 
and  would  have  inevitably  carried  him  off,  but  for  the 
presence  of  mind  of  his  servant,  who  bled  him  profusely. 
On  his  arrival  in  London,  he  ordered  his  journey  to  be 
resumed ;  and,  on  Saturday,  July  7th,  1832  he  departed 
by  sea  to  Scotland,  reached  Abbotsford,  and  seemed 
revived.  The  cloud,  however,  gradually  descended 
upon  him  ;  he  grew  weaker  and  weaker — and,  on 
the  21st  of  September,  1832,  he  died  amidst  his  family, 
without  any  appearance  of  pain. 

Of  his  moral  chani"'.  r  'he  following  interesting 
sketch  has  been  given  by  the  pen  of  Mr  Chambers  : 
"  It  is  by  far  the  greatest  glory  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
that  he  shone  equally  as  a  good  and  virtuous  man,  as 
he  did  in  his  capacity  of  the  first  fictitious  writer  of 
the  age.  His  behaviour  through  life  was  marked  by 
undeviating  integrity  and  purity,  insomuch  that  no 
scandalous  whisper  was  ever  yet  circulated  against 
him.  The  traditionary  recollection  of  his  early  life 
is  burdened  with  no  stain  of  any  sort.  His  character 
as  a  husband  and  a  father,  is  altogether  irreproach- 
able. Indeed,  in  HO  single  relation  of  life  does  it  ap- 
pear that  he  ever  inr  ;r-ed  the  least  blame.  His 
good  sense,  and  good  ieenng  united,  appear  to  have 
guided  him  aright  through  all  the  difficulties  and 
temptations  of  life ;  and,  even  as  a  politician,  though 
blamed  by  many  for  hi=  .-.-elusive  sympathy  in  the 
cause  of  established  rule,  he  was  always  acknowledged 
to  be  too  benevolent  and  too  unobtrusive  to  call  for 
severe  censure.  Along  with  the  most  perfect  up- 
rightness of  conduct,  he  was  characterized  by  extra- 
ordinary simplicity  of  manners.  He  was  invariably 
gracious  and  kind,  and  it  was  impossible  ever  to  de- 
tect in  his  conversation  a  symptom  of  his  grounding 
the  slightest  title  to  consideration  upon  his  literary 
fame,  or  of  his  even  being  conscious  of  it." 


THE 

LAY 

OF 

THE  LAST  MINSTREL 


IN  SIX  CANTOS. 


TO 

THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
CHARLES,    EARL    OF   DALKEITH, 
THIS  POEM  IS  INSCRIBED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

TDK  Poem,  now  offered  to  tne  D"Mic,  is  intended  to  illustrate  the 
customs  and  manners,  which  anciently  prevailed  on  the  Borders 
of  England  and  Scotland.  The  inhabitants,  living  in  a  state  partly 
pastoral  and  partly  warlike,  and  combining  habits  of  constant  de- 
predation with  the  influence  of  a  rude  spirit  of  chivalry,  were 
often  engaged  in  scenes,  highly  susceptible  of  poetical  ornament. 
As  the  description  of  scenery  and  manners  was  more  the  object  of 
the  Auibtr,  *h&:>a  crinKned  and  regijlar  narrative,  the  plan  of 
the  ancient  metrical  romance  was  adopted,  which  allows  greater 
latitude,  in  this  respect,  tb"l  wor'd  or  consistent  with  the  dignity 
of  a  regular  poem.  The  same  nv/del  offered  other  facilities,  as  it 
permits  an  occasional  s'x—'ppn  of  rao-wire,  which,  in  some  de- 
gree, authorizes  the  changes  or  rytnm  in  the  text.  The  machin- 
ery also,  adopted  from  popular  belief,  would  have  seemed  puerile 
in  a  Poem,  which  did  not  partake  of  the  rudeness  of  the  old 
Ballad,  or  Metrical  Romance. 

For  these  reasons,  the  Poem  was  put  into  the  mouth  of  an 
ancient  Minstrel,  the  last  of  the  race,  who,  as  he  is  supposed  to 
have  survived  the  Revolution,  might  have  caught  somewhat  of 
the  refinement  of  modern  poetry,  without  losing  the  simplicity 
of  his  original  model.  The  date  of  the  tale  itself  is  about  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  most  of  the  personages  actually 
nourished.  The  time  occupied  by  the  action  is  three  nights  and 
three  days. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THF  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 

The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 

His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 

Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day; 

The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 

Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 

The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he, 

Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry ; 

For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled, 

His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 

And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 

Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 

No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 

He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn; 

No  longer  courted  and  caressed, 

High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 

He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 

The  unpremeditated  lay : 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone ; 

A  stranger  filled  the  Stuart's  throne ; 

The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 

Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 

A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door; 

And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 

The  harp,  a  King  had  loved  to  hear. 


*  INTRODUCTION. 

He  passed  where  Newark's  stately  towel 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birdien  bower: 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye — 
No  humbler  resting  place  was  nigh, 
With  hesitating  step,  at  last, 
The  embattled  portal-arch  he  passed, 
Whose  ponderous  grate,  and  massy  bar, 
Had  oft  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess*  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well  i 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb. 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride : 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 
Of  good  Earl  Francisf,  dead  and  gone, 
And  of  Earl  Walter^,  rest  him  God  ! 
A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode  : 
And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew, 
Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch  ; 
And,  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 
To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain, 
Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak, 
He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 
That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear, 
He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtained ; 
The  Aged  Minstrel  audience  gained. 

•  Anne,  Duchess  of  Buccleuch  and  Moiimnuth,  representative 
of  the  ancient  lords  of  liuccleuoh,  and  widow  of  the  unfortu- 
nate James,  Duke  of  Monmonth,  who  w;is  beheaded  in  JiiSj. 

t  Francis  Scott,  Karl  of  Buccleuch,  father  to  the  dnc»iK«. 
t  Walter,  Karl  of  Buccleuch,  grandfather  to  thu  duchess,  and  a 
celebrated  warrior. 


INTRODUCTION. 

But,  -when  he  reached  the  room  of  state, 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 
Perchance  he  wished  hii  hoon  denied ; 
For  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease, 
Which  marks  security  to  please ;      _ 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 
Came  wildering  o  er  his  aged  brain- 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain. 
The  pitving  Duchess  praised  its  chime, 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time, 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 

He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 

He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 

It  was  not  framed  for  village  churles, 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls ; 

He  had  plaved  it  to  King  Charles  the  (rood, 

When  he  kept  court  at  Holyrood ; 

And  much  he  wished,  yet  feared,  to  try 

The  long  forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  strayed, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoar)-  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild 
The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled; 
And  lightened  up  his  faded  eye, 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along : 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot, 
His  toils,  '.lis  wants,  were  all  forgot: 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost; 
Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied; 
And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'Twas  thus  the  LATEST  MINSTREL  sung. 


THE 

LAY   OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 

CANTO  FIRST. 


I. 

THE  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower,* 

And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bo'wer; 

Her  bower,  that  was  guarded  by  word  and  by  spell 

Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell— 

Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well! 

No  living  wight,  save  the  Ladye  alone, 

Had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 

II. 

The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all; 

Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire. 
Loitered  through  the  lofty  hall, 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire. 
The  stag-hounds,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  rushy  floor, 

chtf"  f^f  re'i™  Kf  J*mes  L  Sir  w"l>am  Scott,  of  Bucolench. 

^ttAS»±waas3j3SjSS 
E£|?r?S2ysSfi2M!B 

whUe  se"urity'wMeau  " ob'Tc"^  "^  "*  ^  Buccleuch  family, 
riSi!fn0!,ntS,  !i"'"du!!^n'  and  its,  strength  U  obvioua  fro/m°thS 


CANTO  1]     LA.T  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL.  7 

And  urged,  in  dreams,  the  forest  race, 
From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor. 

HI. 

Nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall; 
Nine-and-twenty  squires  of  name 

Brought  them  their  steeds  from  bower  to  stall; 
Nine-and-twenty  yeomen  tall 
Waited,  duteous,  on  them  all : 
They  were  all  knights  of  mettle  true, 
Kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch. 

IV 

Ten  of  them  were  sheathed  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel : 
They  quitted  not  their  harness  bright, 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yet  by  night: 

They  lay  down  to  rest 

With  corslet  laced, 
Pillowed  on  buckler  cold  and  hard; 

They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel,  [barred. 

And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  helmet 

v. 

Ten  squires,  ten  yeomen,  mail-clad  men, 
Waited  the  beck  of  the  warders  ten; 
Thirty  steeds,  both  fleet  and  wight, 
Stood  saddled  in  stable  day  and  night, 
Barbed  with  frontlet  of  steel,  I  trow, 
And  with  Jed  wood-axe  at  saddle  bow;T 
A  hundred  more  fed  free  in  stall: — 
Such  was  the  custom  of  Branksome  HalL 

»  The  ancient  barons  of  Buccleuch,  retained  in  their  household, 
at  Branksome.  a  number  of  gentlemen  of  their  own  name, who 

which  each  possessed  for  his  border   service-      n 

^^^ 

ed  6,  Jedwooi  or  Jed 


8  LAT  OF  THE  [CANTO  I. 

VI. 

Why  do  these  steeds  stand  ready  dight  ? 
Why  watch  these  warriors,  armed,  by  night? 
They  -watch,  to  hear  the  blood-hound  haying  ; 
They  watch,  to  hea'-  tlie  war-horn  braying; 
To  see  St  George's  \>-.l  cross  streaming, 
To  see  the  midnight  beacon  gleaming; 

They  watch,  against  Southern  force  and  guile, 
Lest  Scroop,  or  Howard,  or  Percy's  powers, 
Threaten  Branksome's  lordly  towers, 
From  Warkworth,  or  Naworth,  or  merry  Carlisle.* 


Such  is  the  custom  of  Branksome-Hall.  — 

Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here  ; 
But  he,  the  Chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall, 

Beside  his  broken  spear. 
Bards  long  shall  tell, 
How  lord  Walter  fell  !f 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar,,     • 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war  ; 
When  the  streets  of  high  DunedinJ 
Saw  lances  gleam,  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's§  deadly  yell  — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell. 


Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal, 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity? 

*  Branksome  Castle  was  continually  exposed  to  the  attacks  oi 
the  English,  both  from  its  situation  and  the  restless  military  dis- 
position of  its  inhabitants,  who  were  seldom  on  good  terms  with 

t  Sir  Walter  Scott,  of  Buccleueh,  succeeded  to  his  grandfather. 
Sir  David,  in  1492.  He  was  a  brave  and  powerful  baron,  and 
warden  of  the  west  marches  of  Scotland ;  and  was  slain  by  the 
Kerrs  in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  in  1552.  This  is  the  event 
alluded  to  in  Stanza  VII.;  and  the  poem  is  supposed  to  open 
Bhortlv  after  it  had  taken  place. 

J  Edinburgh. 

§  The  war-cry,  or  gathering  word,  of  a  Border  olau. 


CANTO  !.)  t-AST  MINSTREL. 

No  !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine, 

In  mutual  pilgrimage,  they  drew;* 
Implored,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs,  their  own  red  falchions  slew : 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car,f 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughtered  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 

The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 
Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

IX. 

In  sorrow,  o'er  lord  Walter's  bier 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 
And  many  a  flower,  and  many  a  tear, 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent: 
But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 
The  Ladye  dropped  nor  flower  nor  tear! 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 
Had  locked  the  source  of  softer  woe; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan, 

Her  son  lisped  from  the  nurse's  knee — 
"  And,  if  I  live  to  bo  a  man, 

"  My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be!" 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 

x. 

All  loose  her  negligent  attire, 

All  loose  her  golden  hair, 
Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire, 

And  wept  in  wild  despair. 

*  Amone  other  expedients  resorted  to  for  stanching  the  fend 
betwixt  the  Scotts  and  the  Kerrs,  there  was  a  bond  executed, 
in  151J9,  between  the  heads  of  each  clan,  binding  themselves  to 
perform  reciprocally  the  four  principal  pilgrimages  of  Scotland, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  souls  of  those  of  the  opposite  name  who 
had  fallen  in  the  quarrel.  Such  pactions  were  not  uncommon 
in  feudal  times;  but  they  were  often,  as  in  the  present  case,  void, 
of  the  desired  effect. 

t  The  family  of  Ker,  Kerr,  or  Car,  was  very  powerful  on 
the  Border.  Fynes  Morrison  remarks,  in  his  Travels,  that  their 
inflm  nee  extended  from  the  rillaee  of  Preston  Grange,  in  Lothmn. 
to  the  limits  of  England.  The  Duke  of  Roxburghe  represents  Ker 
of  CeMtbrd. 

A  2 


10  LAY  OP  THE  [CANTC  T- 

But  not  alrne  the  bitter  tear 

Had  filial  grief  supplied ; 
For  hopeless  love,  and  anxious  fear, 

Had  lent  their  mingled  tide  : 
Nor  in  her  mother's  altered  eye 
Dared  she  to  look  for  sympathy. 
Her  lover,  'gainst  her  father's  clan, 

With  Car  in  arms  had  stood, 
When  Mathouse-burn  to  Melrose  ran, 

All  purple  with  their  blood. 
And  well  she  knew,  her  mother  dread, 
Before  lord  Cranstouu  she  should  wed,* 
Would  see  her  on  her  dying  bed. 


Of  noble  race  the  Ladye  came ; 
Her  father  was  a  clerk  of  fame, 

Of  Bethune's  line  of  Picardie  :-f" 
He  learned  the  art,  that  none  may  name, 

In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea.J 
Men  said,  he  changed  his  mortal  frame 

By  feat  of  magic  mystery; 
For  when,  in  studious  mood,  he  paced 

St  Andrew's  cloistered  hall, 
His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Upon  the  sunny  wall  !§ 

*  The  Cranstouns,  Lord  Cranstoun,  are  an  ancient  Border 
family,  whose  chief  seat  was  at  Crailing  in  Teriotdale.  They 
were  at  this  time  at  feud  with  the  clan  of  Scott ;  for  it  appears 
that  the  Lady  of  Buccleuch,  in  1557,  beset  the  laird  of  Cranstonn, 
•eeking  his  life.  Nevertheless,  the  same  Cranstoun,  or  perhaps  hi» 
•on,  was  married  to  a  daughter  of  the  same  lady. 

+  The  Bethunes  were  of  French  origin,  and  the  name  was  ac- 
counted among  the  most  uoble  in  France.  The  family  of  Bethune, 
or  Beatoun,  in  Fife,  produced  three  learned  and  dignified  prelates; 
and  from  it  was  descended  Dame  Janet  Beaton,  Lady  Buccleuch, 
widow  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Brankaome.  She  was  a  woman  ol 
masculine  spirit,  and  possessed  the  hereditary  anilities  of  her 
family  in  such  a  degree,  that  the  superstition  of  the  vulgar  im- 
puted them  to  supernatural  knowledge. 

J  Padua  was  long  supposed  by  the  Scottish  peasants  to  be  th« 
principal  school  of  necromancy. 

§  The  vulgar  conceive,  that  when  a  class  of  students  have  made 
a  certain  progress  in  their  mystic  studies,  they  are  obliged  to  run 
through  a  subterraneous  hallj  where  the  devil  literally  catches  the 
hindmost  in  the  race,  unless  he  crosses  the  hall  so  speedily,  that 
the  arch  enemv  can  only  apprehend  his  shadow.  Those,  who 
ki,re  thus  lust  difir  shadow,  always  prove  the  beet  magicians. 


CANTO  1] 


LAST  MINSTBBL. 


11 


And  of  his  skill,  as  bards  avow, 

He  taught  that  Ladye  fair, 
Till  to  her  bidding  she  could  bow 

The  viewless  forms  of  air.* 
And  now  she  sits  in  secret  bower, 
In  old  Lord  David's  western  tower, 
And  listens  to  a  heavy  sound, 
That  moans  the  mossy  turrets  round* 
Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide,  _ 

That  chafes  against  the  scaur'sf  red  side  P 
Is  it  the  wind  that  swings  the  oaks.-' 
Is  it  the  echo  from  the  rocks  ? 
What  may  it  be,  the  heavy  sound, 
That  moans  old  Branksome's  turrets  round  «• 


XIII. 


At  the  sullen,  moaning  sound, 

The  ban-dogs  bay  and  howl; 
And,  from  the  turrets  round, 
Loud  whoops  the  startled  owl.  _ 
In  the  hall,  both  squire  and  knight 
Swore  that  a  storm  was  near, 
And  looked  forth  to  view  the  night ; 

But  the  night  was  still  and  clear  I 

XIV. 

From  the  sound  of  Teviot's  tide, 
Chafing  with  the  mountain's  side, 
From  the  groan  of  the  wind-swung  oak, 
From  the  sullen  echo  of  the  rock, 
From  the  voice  of  the  coming  storm, 

The  Ladye  knew  it  well ! 
It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Flood  that  spoke, 

And  he  called  on  the  Spirit  of  the  FelL 

*  The  Scottish  vulgar,  believe  in  the  existence  ot  spirit. •  ""Ming 
in  the  air,  or  in  the  waters,  to  wh°8e.a«**ic'rh^1HT^»S  Mou£ 


12  LAT  OF  THE  [CANTO   I 

XV. 

RIVER  SPIRIT. 

"Sleepest  thou,  brother?" 

MOUNTAIN  SPIRIT. 

"Brother,  nay — 

On  my  hills  the  moon-beams  play 
From  Craik-cross  to  Skeli'hill-pen, 
By  every  rill,  in  every  glen, 

Merry  elves  their  morrice  pacing, 

To  aerial  minstrelsy, 
Emerald  rings  on  brown  heath  tracing, 

Trip  it  deft  and  merrily. 
Up,  and  mark  their  nimble  feet ! 
Up,  and  list  their  music  sweet !" 

XVI. 

RIVER  SPIRIT. 
"Tears  of  an  imprisoned  maiden 

Mix  with  my  polluted  stream ; 
Margaret  of  Branksome,  sorrow-laden, 

Mourns  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam. 
Tell  me,  thou,  who  viewest  the  stars, 
When  shall  cease  these  feudal  jars  ? 
What  shall  be  the  maiden's  fate? 
Who  shall  be  the  maiden's  mate  ?" 


MOUNTAIN  SPIRIT. 

"  Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  -roll, 
In  utter  darkness,  round  the  pole ; 
The  Northern  Bear  lowers  black  and  grim.; 
Orion's  studded  belt  is  dim ; 
Twinkling  faint,  and  distant  far, 
Shimmers  through  mist  each  planet  star; 

111  may  I  read  their  high  decree  : 
But  no  kind-  influence  deign  they  shower 
On.  Teviot's  tide,  and  Branksome's  tower, 

Till  pride  be  quelled,  and  love  be  free." 

XVIII. 

The  unearthly  voices  ceast, 
And  the  heavy  sound  was  still ; 


OA.NTOIO 


LAST  M^STttEL.  13 


It  died  on  the  river's  breast, 

It  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill. — 
But  round  Lord  David's  tower 

The  sound  still  floated  near ; 
For  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  bower, 

And  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  ear. 
She  raised  her  stately  head, 

And  her  heart  throbbed  high  with  pride: 
"  Your  mountains  shall  bend, 
And  your  streams  ascend, 

Ere  Margaret  be  our  foeman's  bride !" 


The  Ladye  sought  the  lofty  hall, 

Where  many  a  bold  retainer  lay, 
And,  with  jocund  din,  among  them  all, 

Her  son  pursued  his  infant  play. 
A  fancied  moss-trooper,  the  boy* 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode, 
And  round  the  hall,  right  merrily, 

In  mimic  foray  rode. 
Even  bearded  knights,  in  arms  grown  old, 

Share  in  his  frolic  gambols  bore, 
Albeit  their  hearts,  of  rugged  mould, 
Were  stubborn  as  the  steel  they  wore. 
For  the  gray  warriors  prophesied, 

How  the  brave  boy,  in  future  war, 
Should  tame  the  Unicorn's  pride, 

Exalt  the  Crescents  and  the  Star.f 


The  Ladye  forgot  her  purpose  high, 

One  moment,  and  no  more ; 
One  moment  gazed  with  a  mother's  eye, 

As  she  paused  at  the  arched  door : 

*  Moss-trooper  was  the  usual  appellation  of  the  maraudert  upon 
the  Border;  a  profession  diligently  pursued  by  the  iiihabitantl 
on  both  aides,  and  bvnone  more  actively  and  successfully  than  by 
Buccleuch's  clan.  Their  predatory  inroads  were  termed  forayg. 

t  The  arms  of  the  Kerrs  of  Cessford  were,  Vert  on  a  chi- 
veron,  betwixt  three  unicorns'  heads  erased  argent,  three  molletl 
•able.  Crest,  an  unicorn's  head  erased  proper.  The  Sootts  of 
Buccleuch  bore,  Or  ou  a  bend  azure ;  a  star  of  six  points  betwixt 
two  crefceutl  of  the  lint. 


14 


LAY  OF  THE 


[CANTO  I. 


Then,  from  amid  the  armed  train, 

She  called  to  her  William  of  Delorain*.* 

XXI. 

A  stark  moss-trooping  Scott  was  he, 
As  e'er  couched  border  lance  hy  knee : 
Through  Solway  sands,  through  Tarras  moss, 
Blindfold,  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross ; 
By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds, 
Had  baffled  Percy's  best  blood-hounds  ;f 
In  Eske,  or  Liddel,  fords  were  none, 
But  he  would  ride  them,  one  by  one ; 
Alike  to  him  was  time  or  tide, 
December's  snow,  or  July's  pride ; 
Alike  to  him  was  tide,  or  time, 
Moonless  midnight,  or  matin  prime : 
Steady  of  heart,  and  stout  of  hand, 
As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland ; 
Five  times  outlawed  had  he  been, 
By  England's  king  and  Scotland's  queen. 

XXII. 

"  Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
Mount  thee  on  the  wightest  steed ; 
Spare  not  to  spur,  nor  stint  to  ride, 
Until  thou  come  to  fair  Tweedside ; 
And  in  Melrose's  holy  pile 
Seek  thou  the  Monk  of  St  Mary's  aisle. 
Greet  the  father  well  from  me ; 

Say,  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 
And  to-night  he  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb  : 
For  this  will  be  St  Michael's  night, 
And,  though  stars  be  dim,  the  moon  is  bright- 
And  the  Cross,  of  bloody  red, 
Will  point  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead. 


»  The  lands  of  Delor 
Tially  possessed  by  the  ] 
granted  by  them  to  vass 

t  The  kings  anrf  h»i- 
riders,  were  so 


eroes    of  Seo 
obliged  to 


ricke  Forest,  were  immemo- 
iily,  and  were  occasionally 
i,  for  Border-service, 
id,  as  well  as  the  Border- 
v  how  to  evade  the  pursuit 

opping  the  dog  was  to  cross  a 


CANTO  L] 


LAST  MINSTKEL. 


15 


XXIII. 

"  What  he  gives  thee,  see  thou  keep; 
Stay  not  thou  for  food  or  sleep : 
Be  it  scroll,  or  be  it  book, 
Into  it,  knight,  thou  must  not  look; 
If  thou  readest,  thou  art  lorn!         ^ 
Better  had'st  thou  ne'er  been  born, 

XXIV. 

"  O  swiftly  can  speed  my  dapple-gray  steed, 

Which  drinks  of  the  Teviot  clear; 
Ere  break  of  day,"  the  warrior  'gan  say, 

"  Again  will  I  be  here : 
And  safer  by  none  may  thy  errand  be  done, 

Than,  noble  dame,  by  me ; 
Letter  nor  line  know  I  never  a  pnei 

Wer't  my  neck-verse  at  Hairibee. 

XXV. 

Soon  in  his  saddle  sate  he  fast, 
And  soon  the  steep  descent  he  past, 
Soon  crossed  the  sounding  barbican,t 
And  soon  the  Teviot  side  he  won. 
Eastward  the  wooded  path  he  rode; 
Green  hazels  o'er  his  basnet  nod: 
He  passed  the  Peel*  of  Goldiland, 
And  crossed  old  Borthwick's  roaring  strand; 
Dimly  he  viewed  the  Moat-hill's  mound.fc 
Where  Druid  shades  still  flitted  round; 
In  Hawick  twinkled  many  a  light ; 
Behind  him  soon  they  set  in  night; 
And  soon  he  spurred  his  courser  keen 
Beneath  the  tower  of  Hazeldean.|| 


«,  the  place  of  executing  th 


marauders  at 


°f  ^ff^bican,  the  defence  of  the  ooter  gate  of  a  feudal  castle. 
J  Peel,  A  Border  tower.  Hawick,  which,  from  its 


5^|'Th°etJSS?of  Hazeldean,  corruptly  Hassendean,  belonged  for- 
merly  to  a  family  of  SeotU. 


LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO 

XXVI. 

The  clattering  hoofs  the  watchmen  mark;— 
"  Stand,  ho !  thou  courier  of  the  dark." 
"  For  Branksome,  ho !"  the  knight  rejoined, 
And  left  the  friendly  tower  behind. 
He  turned  him  now  from  Teviotside, 

And,  guided  by  the  tinkling  rill, 
Northward  the  dark  ascent  did  ride, 

And  gained  the  moor  at  Horseliehill  • 
Broad  on  the  left  before  him  lay, 
For  many  a  mile,  the  Roman  way.* 

XXVII. 

A  moment  now  he  slacked  his  speed, 
A  moment  breathed  his  panting  steed; 
Drew  saddle-girth  and  corslet-band, 
And  loosened  in  the  sheath  his  brand. 
On  Minto-crags  the  moon-beams  glint 
Where  Barnhill  hewed  his  bed  of  flint  ;f 
Who  flung  his  outlawed  limbs  to  rest, 
Where  falcons  hang  their  giddy  nest, 
Mid  cliffs,  from  whence  his  eagle  eye 
For  many  a  league  his  prey  could  spy; 
Cliffs,  doubling,  on  their  echoes  borne| 
The  terrors  of  the  robber's  horn; 
Cliffs,  which,  for  many  a  later  year, 
The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear, 
When  some  sad  swain  shall  teach  the  grove, 
Ambition  is  no  cure  for  love. 

XXVIII. 

Unchallenged,  thence  past  Deloraine 
To  ancient  Riddel's  fair  dornain,^ 

Bh*  <^n  an°ient  Roman  r°ad,  crossing  through  part  of  Roxburgh- 

raJaiflvSPV0  T emb'?*?  of  clift'  wl»ich  rise  suddenly  above  the 
vale  of  leviot.     A  small  platform,  on  a  projectin"  crau-  coirii  an  1 


CANTO  I]  LAST  MINSTREL. 

Where  Aill,  from  mountains  freed, 
]  >own  from  the  lakes  did  raving  come; 
Each  wave  was  crested  with  tawny  foam, 

Like  the  mane  of  a  chestnut  steed. 
In  vain !  no  torrent,  deep  or  broad, 
Might  bar  the  bold  moss-trooper's  road. 

XXIX. 

At  the  first  plunge  the  horse  sunk  low, 

And  the  water  broke  o'er  the  saddle-bow; 

Above  the  foaming  tide,  I  ween, 

Scarce  half  the  charger's  neck  was  seen ; 

For  he  was  barded*  from  counter  to  tail, 

And  the  rider  was  armed  complete  in  mail; 

Never  heavier  man  and  horse 

Stemmed  a  midnight  torrent's  force. 

The  warrior's  very  plume,  I  say, 

Was  daggled  by  the  dashing  spray; 

Yet,  through  good  heart,  and  our  Ladye's  grace, 

At  length  he  gained  the  landing  place. 


Now  Bowden  Moor  the  m;irch-man  won, 

And  sternly  shook  his  plumed  head, 
As  glanced  his  eye  o'er  Halidon;-f- 

For  on  his  soul  the  slaughter  red 
Of  that  unhallowed  morn  arose, 
When  first  the  Scott  and  Car  were  foes; 
When  royal  James  beheld  the  fray, 
Prize  to  the  victor  of  the  day ; 
When  Home  and  Douglas,  in  the  van, 
Bore  down  Buccleuch's  retiring  clan, 
Till  gallant  Cessford's  heart-blood  dear 
Reeked  on  dark  Elliot's  Border  spear. 

XXXI. 

In  bitter  mood  he  spurred  fast, 
And  soon  the  hated  heath  was  past; 

«  Barded,  or  barbed,  applied  to  a  horse  »ccoutere4  with  armour. 

t  Halidon,  near  Melrose,  was  an  ancient  seat  of  the  Kerrs  of  Cess- 
ford,  now  demolished.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  northward 
lay  the  field  of  battle  betwixt  Bucclecch  and  Angus,  (1526)  which 
u  called  to  this  day  the  Skirmish  field. 


18  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  1. 

And  far  beneath,  in  lustre  wan, 

Old  Metros'  rose,  and  fair  Tweed  ran  : 

Like  some  tall  rock,  with  lichens  gray, 

Seemed,  dimly  huge,  the  dark  Abbaye. 

When  Hawick  he  passed,  had  curfew  rung, 

Now  midnight  laudsf  were  in  Melrose  sung. 

The  sound  upon  the  fitful  gale, 

In  solemn  wise  did  rise  and  fail, 

Like  that  wild  harp,  whose  magic  tone 

Is  wakened  by  the  winds  alone. 

But  when  Melrose  he  reached,  'twas  silence  all; 

He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall , 

And  sought  the  convent's  lonely  walL 

HERE  paused  the  harp ;  and  with  its  swell 
The  Master's  fire  and  courage  fell : 
Dejectedly,  and  low,  he  bowed, 
And,  gazing  timid  on  the  crowd, 
He  seemed  to  seek,  in  every  eye, 
If  they  approved  his  minstrelsy; 
And,  diffident  of  present  praise, 
Somewhat  he  spoke  of  former  _days, 
And  how  old  age,  and  wandering  long, 
Had  done  his  hand  and  harp  some  wrong. 

The  Duchess,  and  her  daughters  fair, 
And  every  gentle  ladye  there, 
Each  after  each,  in  due  degree, 
Gave  praises  to  his  melody; 
His  hand  was  true,  his  voice  was  clear, 
And  much  they  longed  the  rest  to  hear. 
Encouraged  thus,  the  Aged  Man, 
After  meet  rest,  again  began. 

*  The  monastery  of  Melrose,  founded  bv  King  David  I.,  is  the 
finest  specimen  ,,t  (inthir  architecture,  and  Gothic  sculpture,  whicl 
Scotland  can  boast.  The  stone  of  which  it  is  built,  retams  perfect 
sharpness,  MI  that  cvtn  the  most  minute  ornaments  seem  as  entirl 
as  when  newlv  wrought.  In  some  of  the  cloisters,  there  are  re- 
presentations ot  flowers,  vegetables,  fee.,  carved  in  stone,  with 
accuracy  and  precision  so  delicate,  that  we  almost  d.strust  our 
roues,  when  we  consider  the  difficulty  of  subjecting  so  hard  a 
substance  to  such  intricate  and  exquisite  modulation. 

f  Lauds,  the  midnight  service  of  the  Catholic  church. 


• QM      'uvud 


CAirrono  LAST  MINSTREL.  19 


CANTO  SECOND. 


I. 

IF  thou  would'st  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die;* 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 

Then  view  St  David's  ruined  pile  :f 

And,  home  returning,  soothiy  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair! 

n. 

Short  halt  did  Deloraine  make  there; 
Little  recked  he  of  the  scene  so  fair. 
With  dagger's  hilt,  on  the  wicket  strong, 
He  struck  full  loud,  and  struck  full  long. 
The  porter  hurried  to  the  gate  — 
"  Who  knocks  so  loud,  and  knocks  so  late?" 
"From  Branksome  I,"  the  warrior  cried; 
And  strait  the  wicket  opened  wide  : 

For  Branksome's  chiefs  had  in  battle  stood, 
To  fence  the  rights  of  fair  Melrose  ; 


t  David  the  first  of  Scotland,  who  was  sainted  for  hi«  W 
in  founding  and  endowing  Metose,  anther  monasteries 


20  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  H. 

And  lands  and  livings,  many  a  rood, 

Had  gifted  the  shrine  for  their  souls'  repose. 

III. 

Bold  Deloraine  his  errand  said; 
The  porter  bent  his  humble  head; 
With  torch  in  hand,  and  feet  unshod, 
And  noiseless  step,  the  path  he  trod; 
The  arched  cloisters,  far  and  wide, 
Bang  to  the  warrior's  clanking  stride; 
Till,  stooping  low  his  lofty  crest, 
He  entered  the  cell  of  the  ancient  priest, 
And  lifted  his  barred  aventayle,f 
To  hail  the  Monk  of  St  Mary's  aisle. 

IV. 

"  The  Ladye  of  Branksome  greets  thee  by  me; 

Says,  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 
And  that  to-night  I  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb." 
From  sackcloth  couch  tbe  Monk  arose,     • 

With  toil  his  stiffened  limbs  he  reared; 
A  hundred  years  had  flung  their  snows 

On  his  thin  locks  and  floating  beard. 

v. 

And  strangely  on  the  Knight  looked  he, 

And  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  wild  and  wide; — 
"  And,  dar'st  thou,  warrior!  seek  to  see 

What  heaven  and  hell  alike  would  hide? 
My  breast,  in  belt  of  iron  pent, 

With  shirt  of  hair  and  scourge  of  thorn; 
For  threescore  years,  in  penance  spent, 

My  knees  those  flinty  stones  have  worn; 
Yet  all  too  little  to  atone 
For  knowing  what  should  ne'er  be  known. 

Would'st  thou  thy  every  future  year  _ 
In  ceaseless  prayer  and  penance  drie, 

Yet  wait  thy  latter  end  with  fear- 
Then,  daring  warrior,  follow  me !" 

»  The  Bnccleuch  family  were  great  benefactors  to  the  abbey 
Melrose. 
t  Aventayle,  visor  of  the  helmet. 


OANTO  HO  LAST  MINSTREL.  21 

VI. 

"  Penance,  father,  -will  I  none; 

Prayer  know  I  hardly  one ; 

For  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry, 

Save  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 

When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray:* 

Other  prayer  can  I  none ; 

So  speed  me  my  errand,  and  let  me  begone. 


Again  on  the  Knight  looked  the  Churchman  old, 

And  again  he  sighed  heavily; 
For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold, 

And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long  since  by, 
When  his  limbs  were  strong,  and  his  courage  was 
Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way,  [high: — 

Where,  cloistered  round,  the  garden  lay; 

The  pillared  arches  were  over  their  head, 
And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead.f 

VIII. 

Spreading  herbs,  and  flowerets  bright, 
Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night; 
Nor  herb,  nor  floweret,  glistened  there, 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
The  Monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon, 

Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

The  youth  in  glittering  squadrons  start; 
Suddenly  the  flying  jennet  wheel, 
Ani  hurl  the  unexpected  dart.J 

*  The  Borderers  were  very  ignorant  about  religious  matters. 
But  however  deficient  ki  real  religion,  they  regularly  told  their 
beads,  and  never  with  more  zeal  than  when  going  on  a  plundering 
expedition. 

t  The  cloisters  were  frequently  used  as  places  of  sepulchre. 

j  The  warlike  pastime  of  throwing  the  jerreed,  has  prevailed  m 
the  east  from  time  immemorial,  and  was  imitated  in  the  military 
came  called  Juego  fa  Ins  canal,  which  the  Spaniards  borrowed 
from  their  Mool  ish  invader*. 


22  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  tt. 

He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  bright, 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 

IX. 

By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door, 

They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall; 
The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars,  lofty,  and  light,  and  small; 
The  key-stone,  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle. 
Was  a  tteur-de-lys,  or  a  quatre-feuille ; 
The  corbells*  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim; 
And  the  pillars,  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, ' 
"With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  around, 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands  had  hound. 

x. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner,  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night- wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  Chief  of  Otterburne,-)" 

And  thine,  dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale  !J 
O  fading  honours  of  the  dead ! 
O  high  ambition,  lowly  laid ! 

XI. 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone,§ 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 


*  Corbetls,  the  projections  from  which  these  arches  sprine. 
U8«ally  cut  in  a  fantastic  face,  or  mask. 

•iJvThe  famous  and  desperate  battle  of  Otterburne  was  fought 
15th  August,  1388,  betwixt  Henry  Percy,  called  Hotspur,  and 
James  Earl  of  Douglas.  The  Scots  won  the  day,  dearly  purchased 
by  the  death  of  their  gallant  general,  the  Earl  of  Douglas,  who  was 
slam  in  the  action.  He  was  buried  at  Melrose  beneath  the  high 

I  William  Douglas,  called  the  knight  of  Liddesdale,  flourished 
during  the  reign  of  David  II. ;  and  was  so  distinguished  by  hig 
valour,  that  he  was  called  the  Flower  of  Chivalry  He  WM  .lain 
while  hunting  in  Ettrick  Forest,  by  his  own  godsun  and  chieftain, 
William  Earl  of  Douglas,  and  was  interred,  with  great  pomp  in 
Meirose  abbey,  where  his  tomb  is  still  shown. 

§  It  .s  impossible  to  conceive  a  more  beautiful  specimen  of 
Gothic  architecture,  in  its  purity,  than  the  eastern  window  o» 
Melrose  abbey.  Sir  James  Hall,  has  traced  the  Gothic  order 


CANTO  IL]  LAST  MINSTREL.  23 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined; 
Thou  would' st  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand, 
'Twixt  poplars  straight,  the  osier  wand, 

In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  twined; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willow- wreaths  to  stone. 

The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 

Showed  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 
Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed; 

Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Red 

Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 
The  moon-beam  kissed  the  holy  pane, 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

XII. 

They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone, 

A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below;* 
Thus  spoke  the  Monk,  in  solemn  tone : — 

"  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  woe; 
For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod, 
And  fought  beneath  the  Cross  of  God; 
Now,  strange  to  my  eyes  thine  arms  appear, 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  strange  to  my  ear. 

XIII. 

"  In  these  far  climes,  it  was  my  lot 
To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott  ;T 

A  wizard  of  such  dreaded  fame, 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave,i 

through  its  various  forms,  and  seemingly  eccentric  ornaments, 
to  an  architectural  imitation  of  maker-work ;  and  this  ingenious 
system  is  alluded  to  in  the  romance. 

*  A  large  marble  stone,  in  the  chancel  of  Melrose,  is  pointed  ont 
as  the  mounn    tit  of  Alexander  II. 

+  Sir  Miciia  Scott  of  Balwearie  flourished  during  the  13th  cen- 
tnry;  but  bv  a  poetical  anachronism,  he  is  here  placed  ma  later 
ST  He  was  a  !nan  of  much  learning,  chiefly  acquired  m  foreign 
countries,  and  he  passed  among  his  contemporaries  for  a  skilru] 
nwician.  Dempster  informs  us,  that  htr  remembers  to  have  heard 
in  UU  youth,  that  the  magic  books  of  Michael  Scott  were  still  m 
existence,  but  could  not  be  opened  without  danger,  on  account 
of  tile  fiends  who  were  thereby  invoked. 

*  Spain,  from  the  reliques,  doubtless,  of  Arabian  learning  and 
luperstition,  was  accounted  a  favourite  residence  of  inaffic.ans 
There  were  public  schools,  where  magic,  or  rather  the  science* 
supposed  t*  involve  its  inyateries,Trere  regularly  taugh.,at  I  oledo. 


24  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  II. 

Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave, 
The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame! 

Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me ; 

And,  Warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 

The  words,  that  cleft  Eildon  hills  in  three, 
And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of  stone  :* 

But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin; 

And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart  within, 
A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 

XIV. 

"  When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed, 

His  conscience  was  awakened; 

He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 

And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed: 

I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose, 

But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 

The  words  may  not  again  be  said, 

That  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid; 

They  would  rend  this  Abbaye's  massy  nave, 

And  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 

XV. 

"  I  swore  to  bury  his  Mighty  Book, 

That  never  mortal  might  therein  look; 

And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid, 

Save  at  his  chief  of  Branksome's  need; 

And  when  that  need  was  past  and  o'er, 

Again  the  volume  to  restore. 

I  buried  him  on  St  Michael's  night, 

When  the  bell  tolled  one,  and  the  moon  was  bright ; 

And  I  dug  his  chamber  among  the  dead, 

When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stained  red, 

Seville,  and  Salamanca.    In  the  latter  city,  they  were  held  in  a 

deep  cavern ;  the  mouth  of  which  was  walled  up  by  Queen  Isabella, 

wife  of  King  Ferdinand. 

*  Michael  Scott  was  much  embarrassed  by  a  spirit,  for  whom  he 

was  under  the  necessity  of  finding  constant  employment.  He 
ommanded  him  to  build  a  cauld,  or  dam-head,  across  the  Tweed 
t  Kelso:  it  was  accomplished  in  one  night.  Michael  next  ordered, 

that  Eildon  hill,  which  was  i.hen  a  uniform  cone,  should  be  divided 
nto  three.  Another  night  wag  sufficient  to  part  its  summit  into 
tiree  picturesque  peaks.  At  length  tha  enchanter  conquered  this 

indefatigable  dyjmon,  by  employing  him  in  making  ropes  out  of 

•ea-sand. 


CANTO  II] 


LAST  MINSTREL.  25 


That  his  patron's  Cross  mii;b.t  over  him  ware, 
And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  Wizard's  grave. 

XVI. 

•'  It  was  a  night  of  woe  and  dread, 

When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid; 

Strange  sounds  along  the  chancel  past, 

The  banners  waved  without  a  blast," — 

Still  spoke  the  Monk,  when  the  bell  tolled  one ! — 

I  tell  you.  that  a  braver  man 

Than  "William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 

Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurred  a  steed; 

Yet  somewhat  was  he  chilled  with  dread, 

And  his  hair  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 

XVII. 

"Lo,  Warrior!  now,  the  Cross  of  Red 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead; 

Within  it  burns  a  wondrous  light, 

To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night : 

That  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably, 

Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be."* 

Slow  moved  the  Monk  to  the  broad  flag-stone, 

Which  the  bloody  Cross  was  traced  upon : 

He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook; 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took; 

And  the  Monk  made  a  sign,  with  his  withered  hand, 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 


With  beating  heart  to  the  task  he  went; 

His  sinewy  frame  o'er  the  grave-stone  bent; 

With  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain, 

Till  the  toil-drops  fell  from  his  brows,  like  rain. 

It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength, 

That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 

I  would  you  had  been  there,  to  see 

How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 

*  Baptists  Porta,  and  other  authors  who  treat  of  natural  map'e, 
talk  much  of  eternal  lamps,  pretended  to  have  been  found  burning 
in  ancient  sepulchres.  One  of  these  perpetual  lamps  is  said  to  have 
been  discovered  in  the  tomb  of  Tulliola,  the  daughter  of  Cicero. 


26  LAY  OP  THE  [CANTO  TL 

Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof! 
No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright: 
It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light; 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  Monk's  cowl,  and  visage  pale, 
Danced  on  the  dark-brow' d  Warrior's  mail, 
And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 


Before  their  eyes  the  Wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day. 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old; 

A  palmer's  amice  wrapped  him  round, 

With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound,        • 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea: 

His  left  hand  held  his  Book  of  Might; 

A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right; 

The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee: 
High  aud  majestic  was  his  look, 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook, 
And  all  unruffled  was  his  face: — 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 

XX. 

Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 
Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 
And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain, 

And  neither  known  remorse  or  awe; 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  own'd; 
His  breath  came  thick,  his  head  swam  round, 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he  saw. 
Bewildered  and  unnerved  he  stood, 
And  the  priest  prayed  fervently,  and  loud : 
With  eyes  averted  prayed  lie ; 
He  might  not  endure  the  sight  to  see, 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 

XXI. 

And  when  the  Priest  his  death-prayer  had  prayed, 
Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said: — 


CANTO  0.1  LAST  MI.NbTREL.  27 

"  Now  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do, 

Or,  Warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue; 

For  those,  thou  uiayest  not  look  upon, 

Are  gathering  fast  round  the  yawning  stone  I" 

Then  Deloraine,  in  terror,  took 

From  the  cold  hand  the  Mighty  Book, 

With  iron  clasped,  and  with  iron  hound: 

He  thought,  as  he  took  it,  the  dead  man  frowned ; 

But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light, 

Perchance,  had  dazzled  the  warrior's  sight. 


When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb, 

The  night  returned,  in  double  gloom ; 

For  the  moon  had  gone  down,  and  the  stars  were  few; 

And,  as  the  Knight  and  Priest  withdrew, 

With  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain, 

They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 

Tis  said,  as  through  the  aisles  they  passed, 

They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast ; 

And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small, 

Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel  wall, 

Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 

And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man ; 

As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday, 

Because  these  spells  were  brought  to  day. 

I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be ; 

I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me. 


"  Now,  hie  thee  hence,"  the  Father  said, 
"  And,  when  we  are  on  death-bed  laid, 
O  may  our  dear  Ladye,  and  sweet  St  John, 
Forgive  our  souls  for  the  deed  we  have  done  P* 

The  monk  returned  him  to  his  cell, 
And  many  a  prayer  and  penance  sped ; 

When  the  convent  met  at  the  noontide  bell— 

The  Monk  of  St  Mary's  aisle  was  dead ! 
Before  the  cross  was  the  body  laid, 
With  hands  clasped  fast,  as  if  still  he  prayed. 


28 


LAY  OF  THE  [  CANTO  tt 


XXIV. 

The  Knight  breathed  free  in  the  morning  •wind, 

And  strove  his  hardihood  to  find: 

He  was  glad  when  he  passed  the  tombstones  gray, 

Which  girdle  round  the  fair  Abbaye  ; 

For  the  mystic  Book,  to  his  bosom  prest, 

Felt  like  a  load  upon  his  breast ; 

And  his  joints,  with  nerves  of  iron  twined, 

Shook,  like  the  aspen  leaves  in  wind. 

Full  fain  was  he  when  the  dawn  of  day 

Began  to  brighten  Cheviot  gray ; 

He  joyed  to  see  the  cheerful  light, 

And  he  said  Ave  Mary,  as  well  as  he  might. 


The  sun  had  brightened  Cheviot  gray, 

The  sun  had  brightened  the  Carter's*  side; 
And  soon  beneath  the  rising  day 

Smiled  Branksome  towers  and  Teviofs  tide. 
The  wild  birds  told  their  warbling  tale, 

And  wakened  every  flower  that  blows; 
And  peeped  forth  the  violet  pale, 

And  spread  her  breast  the  mountain  rose ; 
And  lovelier  than  the  rose  so  red, 

Yet  paler  than  the  violet  pale, 
She  early  left  her  sleepless  bed, 

The  fairest  maid  of  Teviotdale. 


Why  does  fair  Margaret  so  early  awake, 

And  don  her  kirtle  so  hastilie ; 
And  the  silken  knots,  which  in  hurry  she  would  make, 

Why  tremble  her  slender  lingers  to  tie ; 
Why  does  she  stop,  and  look  often  around, 

As  she  glides  down  the  secret  stair ; 

And  why  does  she  pat  the  shaggy  blood-hound, 

As  he  louses  him  up  from  his  lair ; 
And,  though  she  passes  the  postern  alone, 
Why  is  not  the  watchman's  bugle-blown? 

*  A  mountain  on  the  Border  of  England,  above  Jedburgh. 


CANTO  ttj  LAST  MINSTREL.  29 


The  ladye  steps  in  doubt  and  dread, 

Lest  her  watchful  mother  hear  her  tread ; 

The  lady  caresses  the  rough  blood-hound, 

Lest  his  voice  should  waken  the  castle  round ; 

The  watchman's  bugle  is  not  blown, 

For  he  was  her  foster-father's  son ; 

And  she  glides  through  the  greenwood  at  dawn  of  light, 

To  meet  Baron  Henry,  her  own  true  knight. 


The  Knight  and  Ladye  fair  are  met, 

And  under  the  hawthorn's  boughs  are  set 

A  fairer  pair  were  never  seen 

To  meet  beneath  the  hawthorn  green. 

He  was  stately,  and  young,  and  tall ; 

Dreaded  in  battle,  and  loved  in  hall : 

And  she,  when  love,  scarce  told,  scarce  hid, 

Lent  to  her  cheek  a  livelier  red; 

When  the  half  sigh  her  swelling  breast 

Against  the  silken  ribband  pressed ; 

When  her  blue  eyes  their  secret  told, 

Though  shaded  by  her  locks  of  gold — 

Where  would  you  iiud  the  peerless  fair, 

With  Margaret  of  Branksome  might  compare ! 

XXIX. 

And  now,  fair  dames,  methinks  I  see 

You  listen  to  my  minstrelsy ; 

Your  waving  locks  vr  backward  throw, 

And  sidelong  bend  you  t  necks  of  snow : — 

Ye  ween  to  hear  a  melting  tale, 

Of  two  true  lovers  in  a  dale; 

And  how  the  Knight,  with  tender  fire, 

To  paint  his  faithful  passion  strove ; 
Swore,  he  might  at  her  feet  expire, 

But  never,  never  cease  to  love ; 
And  how  she  blushed,  and  how  she  sig 
And,  half  consenting,  half  denied, 
And  said  that  she  would  die  a  maid : — 
Yet,  might  the  bloody  feud  be  stayed, 


30  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  II 

Henry  of  Cranstoun,  and  only  he, 
Margaret  of  Branksome's  choice  should  be. 

XXX. 

Alas !  fair  dames,  your  hopes  are  vain ! 
My  harp  has  lost  the  enchanting  strain ; 

Its  lightness  wo.uld  my  age  reprove : 
My  hairs  are  gray,  my  limbs  are  old, 
My  heart  is  dead,  my  veins  are  cold  : — 

I  may  not,  must  not,  sing  of  love. 


Beneath  an  oak,  mossed  o'er  hy  eld, 
The  Baron's  Dwarf  his  courser  held, 

And  held  his  crested  helm  and  spear  : 
That  Dwarf  was  scarcely  an  earthly  man, 
If  the  tales  were  true,  that  of  him  ran 

Through  all  the  Border,  far  and  near. 
'  Twas  said,  when  the  Baron  a  hunting  rode 
Through  Reedsdale's  glens,  but  rarely  trod, 

He  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost  f 

And,  like  tennis-ball  by  raquet  tossed, 
A  leap,  of  thirty  feet  and  three, 

Made  from  the  gorse  this  elfi-n  shape, 

Distorted  like  some  dwarfish  ape, 

And  lighted  at  Lord  Cranstoun's  knee. 

Lord  Cranstoun  was  some  whit  dismayed ; 

'Tis  said  that  five  good  miles  he  rade, 

To  rid  him  of  his  company; 
But  where  he  rode  one  mile,  the  Dwarf  ran  four, 
And  the  Dwarf  was  first  at  the  castle  door. 


Use  lessens  marvel,  it  is  said. 

This  elvish  Dwarf  with  the  Baron  staid ; 

Little  he  ate,  and  less  he  spoke,  . 

Nor  mingled  with  the  menial  flock ; 

And  oft  apart  his  arms  he  tossed, 

And  often  muttered,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost  P* 
He  was  waspish,  arch,  and  litherlie, 
But  well  Lord  Cranstoun  served  h«  : 


CANTO  IL] 


tAST  MINSTBEI,  31 


And  he  of  his  service  was  full  fain ; 
For  once  he  tad  been  ta'en  or  slain, 
An'  it  had  not  been  his  ministry. 
All,  between  Home  and  Hermitage, 
Talked  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page. 


For  the  Baron  went  on  pilgrimage,    • 
And  took  with  him  this  elvish  Page, 

To  Mary's  chapel  of  the  Lowes : 
For  there,  beside  Our  Ladye's  lake, 
An  offering  he  had  sworn  to  make, 

And  he  would  pay  his  vows. 
But  the  Ladye  of  Branksome  gathered  a  band 
Of  the  best  that  would  ride  at  her  command 

The  trysting  place  was  Newark  Lee. 
Wat  of  Harden  came  thither  amain, 
And  thither  came  John  of  Thirlestaine, 
And  thither  came  William  of  Deloraine; 

They  were  three  hundred  spears  and  three. 
Through  Douglas- burn,  up  Yarrow  stream, 
Their  horses  prance,  their  lances  gleam. 
They  came  to  St  Mary's  lake  ere  day ; 
But  the  chapel  was  void,  and  the  Baron  away. 
They  burned  the  chapel  for  very  rage, 
And  cursed  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page.* 

XXXIV. 

And  now,  in  Branksome's  good  green  wood, 

As  under  the  aged  oak  he  stood, 

The  Baron's  courser  pricks  his  ears, 

As  if  a  distant  noise  he  hears. 

The  Dwarf  waves  his  long  lean  arm  on  high. 

And  signs  to  the  lovers  to  part  and  fly; 

No  time  was  then  to  vow  or  sigh. 

»  "  Upon  25th  June,  1557,  Dame  Janet  Beatoune  T,aclv  Buc- 
cleuch  and  a  frreat  number  of  the  name  of  Scott,  delaitit  (accused) 
for  coming  to  the  kirk  of  St  .^fary  of  the  I/ou-es,  to  the  number 
of  two  hundred  persons  bodin  in  feir  of  weii-e  (arranged  in, 
armour),  and  breaking  open  the  doors  of  the  said  kirk,  in"  order 
to  apprehend  the  laird.  >f  C.-anstoune  for  his  destruction."  Abririge- 
ment  of  Bonks  af  Adjuvt-ruil  in  Advocates'  Library.  It  is  said, 
that,  upon  tula  rising,  the  kirk  of  St  Mary  was  burned  by  the 


32  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  I! 

Fair  Margaret,  through  the  hazel  grove, 
Flew  like  the  startled  cushat-dove  :* 
The  Dwarf  the  stirrup  held  and  rein ; 
Vaulted  the  knight  on  his  steed  amain, 
And,  pondering  deep  that  morning's  scene, 
Rode  eastward  through  the  hawthorns  green. 

WHILE  thus  he  poured  the  lengthened  tale, 
The  Minstrel's  voice  began  to  fail  : 
Full  slyly  smiled  the  observant  page, 
And  gave  the  withered  hand  of  age 
A  goblet,  crowned  with  mighty  wine, 
The  blood  of  Velez'  scorched  vine. 
He  raised  the  silver  cup  on  high, 
And,  while  the  big  drop  tilled  his  eye, 
Prayed  God  to  bless  the  Duchess  long, 
And  all  who  cheered  a  son  of  song. 
The  attending  maidens  smiled  to  see, 
How  long,  how  deep,  how  zealously, 
The  precious  juice  the  minstrel  quaffed  ; 
And  he,  emboldened  by  the  draught, 
Looked  gaily  back  to  them,  and  laughed. 
The  cordial  nectar  of  the  bowl 
Swelled  his  old  veins,  and  cheered  hia  soulj 
A  lighter,  livelier  prelude  ran, 
Ere  thus  his  tale  again  began. 


CANTO  THIRD. 

I. 

AND  said  I  that  my  limbs  were  old; 
And  said  I  that  my  blood  was  cold, 
And  that  my  kindly  fire  was  tied, 
And  my  poor  withered  heart  was  dead, 
And  that  I  might  not  sing  of  lover- 
How  could  I  to  the  dearest  theme, 

»  Wood  pigeoc. 


CANTO  HI.] 


LAST  MINSTREL.  33 


That  ever  warmed  a  minstrel's  dream, 

So  foul,  so  false,  a  recreant  pvovc ! 
How  could  I  name  love's  very  name, 
Nor  wake  my  heart  to  notes  of  flame ! 

II. 

In  peace,  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed ; 
In  war,  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed; 
In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen  ; 
In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 
Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 
And  men  below,  and  saints  above ; 
For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love. 

ill. 

So  thought  Lord  Cranstoun,  as  I  ween, 

While,  pondering  deep  the  tender  scene, 

He  rode  through  Branksome's  hawthorn  green. 

But  the  Page  shouted  wild  and  shrill— 
And  scarce  his  helmet  could  he  don, 

When  downward  from  the  shady  hill 
A  stately  knight  came  pricking  on. 
That  warrior's  steed,  so  dapple-gray, 
Was  dark  with  sweat,  and  splashed  with  clay  ; 

His  armour  red  with  many  a  stain : 
He  seemed  in  such  a  weary  plight, 
As  if  he  had  ridden  the  live-long  night; 

For  it  was  William  of  Deloraine. 

IV. 

But  no  whit  weary  did  he  seem, 

When,  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam, 

He  marked  the  crane  on  the  Baron's  crest  ;* 

For  his  ready  spear  was  in  his  rest. 

Few  were  the  words,  and  stern  and  high, 
That  marked  the  foemeu's  feudal  hate ; 
For  question  lierce,  and  proud  reply, 
Gave  signal  soon  of  dire  debate. 


»  The  crest  of  the  Craiistouns,  in  allusion  to  their  name,  is  a 
crane  dormant,  holding  n  sMne  in  l.is  toot,  with  ail  emphatic 
Border  motto.  Thou  shall  want  ere  I  want. 

B'2 


34 


LAY  OF  THE 


Their  very  coursers  seemed  to  know 
That  each  was  other's  mortal  foe; 
And  snorted  fire,  when  wheeled  around, 
To  give  each  knight  his  vantage  ground. 

v. 
In  rapid  round  the  Baron  bent; 

He  sighed  a  sigh,  and  prayed  a  prayer: 
The  prayer  was  to  his  patron  saint, 

The  sigh  was  to  his  ladye  fair. 
Stout  Deloraine  nor  sighed,  nor  prayed, 
Nor  saint,  nor  ladye,  called  to  aid; 
But  he  stooped  his  head,  and  couched  his  spear, 
And  spurred  his  steed  to  full  career. 
The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 
Seemed  like  the  bursting  thunder-cloud. 

VI. 

Stern  was  the  dint  the  Borderer  lent! 
The  stately  Baron  backwards  bent; 
Bent  backward?  to  his  horse's  tail, 
And  his  plume3  went  scattering  on  the  gale; 
The  tough  ash  spear,  so  stout  and  true, 
Into  a  thousand  Hinders  llew. 
But  Cranstoun's  lance,  of  more  avail, 
Pierced  through,  like  silk,  the  Borderer's  mail; 
Through  shield,  and  jack,  and  acton,  past, 
Deep  in  his  bosom  broke  at  last.  — 
Still  sate  the  warrior  saddle-fast, 
Till,  stumbling  in  the  mortal  shock, 
Down  went  the  steed,  the  girthing  broke, 
Hurled  on  a  heap  lay  man  and  horse. 
The  Baron  onward  passed  his  course; 
Nor  knew—  so  giddy  rolled  his  brain  — 
His  foe  lay  stretched  upon  the  plain. 

VII. 

But  when  he  reined  his  courser  round, 
And  saw  his  foeman  on  the  ground 

Lie  senseless  as  the  bloody  clay, 
He  bade  his  page  to  staunch  the  wound, 

And  there  beside  the  warrior  stay,  >  i 


CANTO  HI.]  LAST  MINSTREL.  85 

And  tend  him  in  his  doubtful  state, 
And  lead  him  to  Branksome  castle-gate: 
His  noble  mind  was  inly  moved 
For  the  kinsman  of  the  maid  he  loved. 
"This  shall  thou  do  without  delay; 
No  longer  here  myself  may  stay: 
Unless  the  swifter  I  speed  away, 
Short  shrift  will  be  at  my  dying  day." 


Away  in  speed  Lord  Cranstoun  rode; 

The  Goblin- Page  behind  abode: 

His  lord's  command  he  ne'er  withstood, 

Though  small  his  pleasure  to  do  good. 

As  the  corslet  off  he  took, 

The  Dwarf  espied  the  Mighty  Book! 

Much  he  marvelled,  a  knight  of  pride 

Like  a  book-bosomed  priest  should  ride:* 

He  thought  not  to  search  or  staunch  the  wound, 

Until  the  secret  he  had  found. 


The  iron  band,  the  iron  clasp, 
Resisted  long  the  elfin  grasp; 
For  when  the  first  he  had  undone, 
It  closed  as  he  the  next  begun. 
Those  iron  clasps,  that  iron  band, 
Would  not  yield  to  unchristened  hand, 
Till  he  smeared  the  cover  o'er 
With  the  Borderer's  curdled  gore; 
A  moment  then  the  volume  spread, 
And  one  short  spell  therein  he  read. 
It  had  much  of  glamourf  might, 
Could  make  a  ladye  seem  a  knight; 
The  cobwebs  on  a  dungeon  wall, 
Seem  tapestry  in  lordly  hall; 

*  There  is  a  tradition,  that  friars  were  wont  to  come  from  Mel- 
rose,  or  .'edburgh,  to  baptize  and  marry  in  the  parish  of  (Tnthank; 
and,  from  being  in  use  to  carry  the  mass-book  in  their  bosomi, 
they  were  called  Book  a-bfviftm?g. 

+  Glamour,  in  the  legends  of  Scottish  «nper»tition.  means  the 
magic  power  of  imposing  on  the  eve-sipht  of  the  spectators,  so 
that  toe  appearance  of  an  object  sb  ill  be  totally  different  from  tuo 
reality. 


36  LAY  OF  THE  LCAWTO 10. 

A  nut-shell  seem  a  gilded  barge, 

A  sheeling*  seem  a  palace  large, 

And  youth  seem  age.  and  age  seem  youth — 

All  was  delusion,  nought  was  truth. 

x. 

He  had  not  read  another  spell, 

When  on  his  cheek  a  buffet  fell, 

So  fierce,  it  stretched  him  on  the  plain, 

Beside  the  wounded  Deloraine. 

From  the  ground  he  rose  dismayed, 

And  shook  his  huge  and  matted  head; 

One  word  he  muttered,  and  no  more — • 

"  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest  sore !" 

No  more  the  Elfin  Page  durst  try 

Into  the  wondrous  Book  to  pry; 

The  clasps,  though  smeared  with  Christian  gore, 

Shut  faster  than  they  were  before. 

He  hid  it  underneath  his  cloak.— 

Now,  if  you  ask  who  gave  the  stroke, 

I  cannot  tell,  so  mot  I  thrive; 

It  was  not  given  by  man  alive. 


Unwillingly  himself  he  addressed, 

To  do  his  master's  high  behest : 

He  lifted  up  the  living  corse, 

And  laid  it  on  the  weary  horse; 

He  led  him  into  Branksome  hall, 

Before  the  beards  of  the  warders  all; 

And  each  did  after  swear  and  say, 

There  only  passed  a  wain  of  hay. 

He  took  him  to  Lord  David's  tower, 

Even  to  the  Ladye's  secret  bowier; 

And,  but  that  stronger  spells  were  spread, 

And  the  door  might  not  be  opened, 

He  had  laid  him  on  her  very  bed. 

Whate'er  he  did  of  gramarye,  -f- 

Was  always  done  maliciously ; 

»  A  shepherd's  hut.  +  Magifl,, 


37 


CANTO  III.]  I-AST  MINSTREL. 

He  flung  the  warrior  on  the  ground, 

And  the  blood  welled  freshly  from  the  -wound. 

XII. 

As  he  repassed  the  outer  court, 

He  spied  the  fair  young  child  at  sport: 

He  thought  to  train  him  to  the  wood; 

For,  at  a  word,  be  it  understood, 

He  was  always  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

Seemed  to  the  boy,  some  comrade  gay 

Led  him  forth  to  the  woods  to  play; 

On  the  draw-bridge  the  warders  stout 

Saw  a  terrier  and  lurcher  passing  out. 

XIII. 

He  led  the  boy  o'er  bank  and  fell, 

Until  they  came  to  a  woodland  brook; 
The  running  stream  dissolved  the  spell,* 

And  his  own  elvish  shape  he  took. 
Could  he  have  had  his  pleasure  wilde, 
He  had  crippled  the  joints  of  the  noble  child; 
Or,  with  his  fingers  long  and  lean, 
Had  strangled  him  in  fiendish  spleen : 
But  his  awful  mother  he  had  in  dread, 
And  also  his  power  was  limited; 
So  he  but  scowled  on  the  startled  child, 
And  darted  through  the  forest  wild; 
The  woodland  brook  he  bounding  crossed, 
And  laughed,  and  shouted,  "Lost!  lost!  lostT 


Full  sore  amazed  at  the  wonderous  change, 

And  frightened,  as  a  child  might  be, 
At  the  wild  yell  and  visage  strange, 

And  the  dark  words  of  gramarye, 
The  child,  amidst  the  forest  bower, 
Stood  rooted  like  a  lilye  flower; 

»  It  is  a  firm  article  of  popular  taith,  that  no  enchantment  c«n 
subsist  iu  a  living  stream.  Nay  if  you  can  interpose  a  brook  be- 
twixt vou  and  witi-hes,  spectres,  or  even  tiends,you  are  m  perfect 
safety.  Bums*  inimitable  Tarn  o'  Shanter  turns  entirely  upon 
such  &  circumstance. 


\ 

38  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  HI. 

And  when  at  length,  with  trembling  pace, 
He  sought  to  find  where  Branksome  lay, 

He  feared  to  see  that  grisly  face 

Glare  from  some  thicket  on  his  way 
Thus,  starting  oft,  he  journeyed  on, 
And  deeper  in  the  wood  is  gone, — 
For  aye  the  more  he  sought  his  way, 
The  farther  still  he  went  astray,— 
Until  he  heard  the  mountains  round 
Eing  to  the  baying  of  a  hound. 


And  hark!  and  hark!  the  deep-moutned  bark 

Comes  nigher  still,  and  nigher; 
Bursts  on  the  path  a  dark  blood-hound. 
His  tawny  muzzle  tracked  the  ground, 

And  his  red  eye  shot  fire. 
Spon  as  the  wildered  child  saw  he, 
He  flew  at  him  right  furioushe.       _ 
I  ween  you  would  have  seen  with  joy 
The  bearing  of  the  gallant  boy, 
When,  worthy  of  his  noble  sire,  _ 

His  wet  cheek  glowed  'twixt  fear  and  ire! 
He  faced  the  blood-hound  manfully, 
And  held  his  little  bat  on  high; 
So  fierce  he  struck,  the  dog,  afraid. 
At  cautious  distance  hoarsely  bayed, 

But  still  in  act  to  spring; 
When  dashed  an  archer  through  the  glade, 
And  when  he  saw  the  hound  was  stayed, 

He  drew  his  tough  bow-string; 
But  a  rough  voice  cried,  "Shoot  not,  hoy! 
Ho !  shoot  not,  Edward— 'tis  a  boy! 

XVI. 

The  speaker  issued  from  the  wood, 
And  checked  his  fellow's  surly  mood, 

And  quelled  the  ban-dog's  ire: 
He  was  an  English  yeoman  good, 

Ana  bora  in  Lancashire. 


CANTO  IIL]  *  AST  MINSTKEL.  39 

Well  could  he  hit  a  fallow  deer 

Five  hundred  feet  him  fro; 

ith  hand  more  true,  and  eye  more  clear, 

No  archer  bended  bow. 
His  coal-black  hair,  shorn  round  and  close, 

Set  off  his  sun-burned  face; 
Old  England's  sign,  St  George's  cross, 

His  barret-cap  did  grace; 
His  bugle  horn  hung  by  his  side, 

All  in  a  wolf-skin  baldric  tied; 
And  his  short  faulchion,  sharp  and  clear, 
Had  pierced  the  throat  of  many  a  deer. 

XVII. 

His  kirtle,  made  of  forest  green, 

Reached  scantly  to  his  knee; 
And,  at  his  belt,  of  arrows  keen 

A  furbished  sheaf  bore  he; 
His  buckler  scarce  in  breadth  a  span, 

No  longer  fence  nad  he; 
He  never  connted  him  a  man, 

Would  strike  below  the  knee; 
His  slackened  bow  was  in  his  hand, 
And  the  leash,  that  was  his  blood-hound's  band.* 

XVIII. 

He  would  not  do  the  fair  child  harm, 
But  held  him  with  his  powerful  arm, 
That  he  might  neither  tight  nor  nee; 
For  when  the  Red-Cross  spied  he, 
The  boy  strove  long  and  violently. 
"Now,  by  St  George,"  the  archer  cries, 
"Edward,  methinks  we  have  a  prize! 
This  boy's  fair  face,  and  coijrage  free, 
Shows  he  is  come  of  high  degree." 

XIX. 

"Yes!  I  am  come  of  high  degree, 

For  I  am  the  heir  of  bold  Buccleuch ; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  set  me  free, 

»  ThU  sketch  of  an  English  veoman  is  imitated  from  Drayton  • 
accou-.it  of  Kobin  HO...I  ».»]  Mi  followers.  To  wound  an  antago- 
nist in  the  tnigh,  or  leg,  *aa  reckoned  contrary  to  the  law  of  arnu. 


40  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  Itt 

False  Suthron,  thou  shalt  dearly  rue! 
For  Walter  of  Harden  shall  come  with  speed, 
And  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
And  every  Scott  from  Esk  to  Tweed; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  let  me  go, 
Despite  thy  arrows,  and  thy  bow, 
I'll  have  thee  hanged  to  feed  the  crow !" 

XX. 

"Gramercy,  for  thy  good  will,  fair  boy! 
My  mind  was  never  set  so  high; 
But  if  thou  art  chief  of  such  a  clan, 
And  art  the  son  of  such  a  man, 
And  ever  comest  to  thy  command. 

Our  wardens  had  need  to  keep  in  good  order: 
My  bow  of  yew  to  a  hazel  wand, 

Thou'lt  make  them  work  upon  the  Border, 
^"eantime,  be  pleased  to  come  with  me, 
For  good  Lord  Dacre  shalt  thou  see; 
I  think  our  work  is  well  begun, 
When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son." 

XXI. 

Although  the  child  was  led  away, 
In  Branksome  still  he  seemed  to  stay, 
For  so  the  Dwarf  his  part  did  play, 
And,  in  the  shape  of  that  young  boy, 
He  wrought  the  castle  much  annoy. 
The  comrades  of  the  young  Buccleuch 
He  pinched,  and  beat,  and  overthrew; 
Nay,  some  of  them  he  well  nigh  slew. 
He  tore  Dame  Maudlin's  silken  tie; 
And,  as  Sym  Hall  stood  by  the  fire, 
He  lighted  the  match  of  his  bandelier,* 
And  woefully  scorched  the  hackbutteer.'f 
It  may  hardly  be  thought,  or  said, 
The  mischief  that  the  urchin  made, 
Till  many  of  the  castle  guessed, 
That  the  young  Baron  was  possessed. 


*  Bandelicr,  belt  for  carrying  ammunition, 
t  Sac/tkiUleer,  musketeer. 


CANTO  III.]  LAST  MINSTRBL.  41 


Well  I  ween,  the  ch.irra  he  held 
The  noble  Ladye  had  soon  dispelled; 
But  she  was  deeply  busied  then 
To  tend  the  wounded  Deloraine. 

Much  she  wondered  to  find  him  lie,  ' 
On  the  stone  threshold  stretched  along; 

She  thought  some  spirit  of  the  sky 

Had  done  the  bold  moss-trooper  wrong, 
Because,  despite  her  precept  dread, 
Perchance  he  in  the  Book  had  read; 
But  the  broken  lance  in  his  bosom  stood, 
And  it  was  earthly  steel  and  wood. 


She  drew  the  splinter  from  the  wound, 

And  with  a  charm  she  staunched  the  blood;* 

She  bade  the  gash  be  cleansed  and  bound: 
No  longer  by  his  couch  she  stood; 

But  she  has  ta'en  the  broken  lance, 
And  washed  it  from  the  clotted  gore, 
And  salved  the  splinter  o'er  and  o'er.-f" 

William  of  Deloraine  in  trance, 

Whene'er  she  turned  it  round  and  round, 
Twisted,  as  if  she  galled  his  wound. 
Then  to  her  maidens  she  did  say, 
That  he  should  be  whole  man  and  sound, 
Within  the  course  of  a  night  and  day. 

Full  long  she  toiled;  for  she  did  rue 

Mishap  to  friend  so  stout  and  true. 


So  passed  the  day — the  evening  fell, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm, 
The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  halm ; 


»  See  several  charms  for  this  purpose  in  Reginald  Scot'i  Dit- 
eorerif  of  tntchcraft,  p.  273. 

t  This  idea  is  taken  from  Sir  Kenelm  Digby's  account  of  his 
n-rr.pathetic  powder,  with  which  he  cured  alL-wonnd«  by  merely 
•minting  with  it  the  weapon  that  h*d  inflicted  them. 


42  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  Dl 

E'en' the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoyed  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour. 
Far  more  fair  Margaret  loved  and  hlessed 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
On  the  high  turret  sitting  lone, 
She  waked  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone; 
Touched  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thought  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green; 
Her  golden  hair  streamed  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand, 
Her  blue  eyes  sought  the  west  afar, 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

XXV. 

Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen, 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light, 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ? — 

O,  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war ! 

Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tightened  breath; 

For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death ! 

XXVI. 

The  warder  viewed  it  blazing  strong, 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long, 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound, 
Rock,  wood,  and  river,  rung  around. 
The  blast  alarmed  the  festal  hall, 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downward,  in  the  castle-yard, 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glared; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  tossed, 
Were  in  the  blaze  half-seen,  half-lost; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook, 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

XXVII. 

The  Seneschal,  whose  silver  hair 
Was  reddened  by  the  torches'  glare, 
Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 
And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud. — 


CANTO  HI] 


LAST  MINSTREL.  48 


"  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale*  of  fire, 

And  three  are  kindling  on  Priesthaughsmre;+ 

Ride  out,  ride  out, 

The  foe  to  scout ! 

Mount,  mount  for  Branksome,+  every  man! 
Thou,  Todrig,  warn  the  Johnstone  clan, 

That  ever  are  true  and  stout. — 
Ye  need  not  send  to  Liddesdale; 
For,  when  they  see  the  blazing  bale, 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  never  fail. — 
Ride,  Alton,  ride,  for  death  and  life. 
And  warn  the  warden  of  the  strife. 
Youne;  Gilbert,  let  our  beacon  blaze, 
Our  km,  and  clan,  and  friends,  to  raise."§ 

xxvni. 

Fair  Margaret,  from  the  turret  head, 
Heard,  far  below,  the  coursers'  tread, 

While  loud  the  harness  rung, 
As  to  their  seats  with  clamour  dread, 

The  ready  horsemen  sprung; 
And  trampling  hoofs,  and  iron  coats, 
And  leaders'  voices,  mingled  notes, 
And  out !  and  out ! 
In  hasty  route, 

The  horsemen  galloped  forth; 
Dispersing  to  the  south  to  scout, 

And  east,  and  west,  and  north, 
To  view  their  coming  enemies, 
And  warn  their  vassals,  and  allies. 

XXIX. 

The  ready  page,  with  hurried  hand, 
Awaked  the  need-fire's  :||  slumbering  brand, 
And  ruddy  blushed  the  heaven : 

•  Bale,  beacon  faggot,  t  See  not*  on  p.  45. 

J  Mount  for  Branktome,  was  the  gathering  word  of  th« 
Scott*. 

§  On  account  of  the  clannish  feeling*  of  relationship  that  sub- 
sisted aimmg  the  Borderers,  a  Border  chief  could  muster  a  large 
f»rre  at  a  very  short  uotice,  whether  for  the  purpo«e  of  surprise  or 

II  Xettt-firt,  baacoa. 


44  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  1U. 

For  a  sheet  of  flame,  from  the  turret  high, 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  sky, 

All  flaring  and  uneven, 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween, 
From  height,  and  hill,  and  cliff,  were  seen; 
Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught; 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight, 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleamed  on  many  a  dusky  tarn,* 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn;^ 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid, 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid;!{r 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw, 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  Law; 
And  Lothian  heard  the  Regent's  order, 
That  all  should  bowneg  them  for  the  Border. 


The  livelong  night  in  Branksome  rang 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  steel; 
The  castle-bell,  with  backward  clang, 

Sent  forth  the  larum  peal; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  heavy  jar; 
Where  massy  stone  and  iron  bar 
Were  piled  on  echoing  keep  and  tower, 
To  whelm  the  foe  with  deadly  shower; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  changing  guard, 
And  watch-word  from  the  sleepless  ward; 
While,  wearied  by  the  endless  din, 
Blood-hound  and  ban-dog  yelled  within. 

XXXI. 

The  noble  Dame,  amid  the  broil, 
Shared  the  gray  Seneschal's  high  toil, 
And  spoke  of  danger  with  a  smile; 

*  Tarn,  a  mountain  Lake.  +  Earn,  a  ScottUh  eagle. 

J  The  cairns,  or  piles  nf  loose  stone,  which  crown  the  summit  of 
mo«t  of  our  Scottish  liills.  seem  usually  to  have  been  sepulchral 
monuments.  Six  Hat  stones  ;ire  commonly  found  in  the  centre, 
forming  a  cavity  of  greater  or  smaller  dimensions,  in  which  an  urn 
is  often  placed. 

§  Bovine,  make  ready. 


CANTO  IV.]  i-AST  MINSTREL.  45 

Cheered  the  young  knights,  and  council  sage 
Held  with  the  chiefs  of  riper  age. 
No  tidings  of  the  foe  were  brought, 
Nor  of  his  numbers  knew  they  ought, 
Nor  in  what  time  the  truce  he  sought. 

Some  said,  that  there  were  thousands  ten, 
And  others  weened  that  it  was  nought 
But  Leven  Clans,  or  Tynedale  men, 
Who  came  to  gather  in  black  mail  ;* 
And  Liddesdale,  with  small  avail, 

Might  drive  them  lightly  back  agen. 
So  passed  the  anxious  night  away, 
And  welcome  was  the  peep  of  day. 


CEASED  the  high  sound — the  listening  throng 

Applaud  the  Master  of  the  Song; 

And  marvel  much,  in  helpless  age, 

So  hard  should  be  his  pilgrimage. 

Had  he  no  friend — no  daughter  dear, 

His  wandering  toil  to  share  and  cheer; 

No  son,  to  be  his  father's  stay, 

And  guide  him  on  the  rugged  way? — 

"  Aye !  once  he  had — but  he  was  dead  !** 

Upon  the  harp  he  stooped  his  head, 

And  busied  himself  the  strings  withal, 

To  hide  the  tear,  that  fain  would  fall. 

In  solemn  measure,  soft  and  slow, 

Arose  a  father's  notes  of  woe. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

i. 
SWEET  Teviot !  on  thy  silver  tide 

The  glaring  bale-fires-f-  blaze  no  more; 

#  Protection-money  exacted  by  free-booters, 

+  The  Border  beacons,  from  their  number  and  position,  formed 
»  sort  of  telegraphic  communication  with  Edinburgh.— The  act  of 
Varliament  1455,  c.  4-8,  directs  that  one  bale  or  fagaot  shall  be  warn- 
ing of  the  approach  of  the  English  in  any  manner  ;  two  bales,  that 
they  are  coming  indeed;  four  bales,  blazing  beside  each  other,  tlul 
(he  enemy  are  in  great  force. 


46  LAY  OP  THB  [CANTO  IV 

No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willowed  shore 
Where'er  thou  wind'st  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still, 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  horn, 
Since  first  they  rolled  upon  the  Tweed, 
Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 

Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn. 


Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time, 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  Haw, 

Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 

Its  earliest  course  was  doomed  to  kno"W, 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stained  with  past  and  present  tears. 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebbed  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  memory's  eye 
The  hour,  rriy  brave,  my  only  boy, 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee.* 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  played 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade, 
Why  was  not  I  beside  liim  laid ! — 
Enough- — he  died  the  death  of  fame ; 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Gram*. 

III. 
Now  over  Border  dale  and  fell, 

Full  wide  and  far  was  terror  spread; 
For  pathless  marsh,  and  mountain  cell, 

The  peasant  left  his  lowly  shed.+ 
The  frightened  flocks  and  herds  were  pent 
Beneath  the  peel's  rude  battlement; 
And  maids  and  matrons  dropped  the  tear, 
While  ready  warriors  seized  the  spear. 
From  Branksome's  towers,  the  watchman's  eye 
Dun  wreaths  of  distant  smoke  can  spy, 

*  The  Viscount  of  Dundee,  slain  in  the  battle  of  Kfflycrankle. 

t  The  Morasses  were  the  nsual  refuge  of  the  Border  herdsmen, 
on  the  approach  of  an  English  army.  Caves,  hewed  in  the  most 
dangerous  and  inaccessible  places,  also  afforded  an  occasional  re- 
treat. 


CANTO  IV.]  tAST  MINSTREL. 

Which,  curling  in  the  rising  sun, 
Showed  southern  ravage  was  begun,* 

IV. 

Now  loud  the  heedful  gate- ward  cried — 
"  Prepare  ye  all  for  blows  and  blood! 
Watt  Tinlinn,  from  the  Liddle-side,f 

Comes  wading  through  the  flood. 
__  Full  oft  the  Tynedale  snatchers  knock 
At  his  lone  gate,  and  prove  the  lock; 
It  was  but  last  St  Barnabright 
They  sieged  him  a  whole  summer  night, 
But  fled  at  morning;  well  they  knew, 
In  vain  he  never  twanged  the  yew. 
Right  sharp  has  been  the  evening  shower, 
That  drove  him  from  his  Liddle  tower; 
And,  by  my  faith,"  the  gate- ward  said, 
"  I  think  'twill  prove  a  Warden-Raid.":}: 

v. 

While  thus  he  spoke,  the  bold  yeoman 
Entered  the  echoing  barbican. 
He  led  a  small  and  shaggy  nag, 
That  through  a  bog,  from  hag  to  hag,§ 
Could  bound  like  any  Bilhope  stag;]] 
It  bore  his  wife  and  children  twain ; 
A  half-clothed  serfU  was  all  their  train : 
His  wife,  stout,  ruddy,  and  dark-browed, 
Of  silver  broach  and  bracelet  proud,** 
Laughed  to  her  friends  among  the  crowd. 


*  The  mutual  cruelties  of  the  Borderen,  and  the  personal  hatred 
of  the  Warden?  gave  to  the  Border  wars,  between  England  and 
Scotland,  a  character  of  savage  atrocity  which  could  not  be  para- 
lelled  even  in  the  wars  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

t  Watt  Tinlinn  was  a  retainer  of  the  Buccleuch  family,  and 
held  for  his  Border  service  a  small  tower  on  the  frontiers  of  tiid- 
detidale.  Watt  was,  by  profession,  a  tutor  (shoemaker),  but,  by 
inclination  and  practice,  an  archer  and  warrior. 

J  An  inroad  commanded  by  the  Warden  in  person, 

§  The  broken  ground  iu  a  bog. 

||  Bilhope  was  famous  among  hunters  for  bucks  and  roes. 

4  Bonds-man. 

**  The  Borderers,  on  account  of  being  exposed  to  haying  their 
houses  burned  or  plundered,  were  anxious  to  dia^luy  splendour  iu 
decorating  and  ornamenting  their  females. 


4ft  LAY  OF  THB  JCANTO  IV. 

He  was  of  stature  passing  tall, 

But  sparely  formed,  and  lean  withal : 

A  battered  morion  on  his  brow; 

A  leathern  jack,  as  fence  enow, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  loosely  hung; 

A  border-axe  behind  was  slung; 

His  spear,  six  Scottish  ells  in  length, 
Seemed  newly  dyed  with  gore; 

His  shafts  and  bow,  of  wondrous  strength, 
His  hardy  partner  bore. 


Thus  to  the  Ladye  did  Tinlinn  show 

The  tidings  of  the  English  foe : — 

"  Belted  Will  Howard  is  marching  here,* 

And  hot  Lord  Dacre,  with  many  a  spear, 

And  all  the  German  liagbut-men,-t< 

Who  have  lone  lain  at  Askertain: 

They  crossed  the  Liddle  at  curfew  hour, 

And  burned  my  little  lonely  tower; 

The  fiend  receive  their  souls  therefor! 

It  had  not  been  burned  this  year  and  more. 

Barn-yard  and  dwelling.  Ma/ing  bright, 

Served  to  guide  me  on  my  (light; 

But  I  was  chased  the  livi  -long  night. 

Black  John  of  Akeshaw,  and  Fergus  Graeme, 

Fast  upon  my  traces  came, 

Until  I  turned  at  Priesthaugh-Scrogg, 

And  shot  their  horses  in  the  bog, 

*  Lord  William  Howard,  third  Bon  of  Thnirai,  duke  of  Norfolk. 
By  a  poetical  anachronlim,  he  is  introduced  into  the  romance  a 
few  years  earlier  than  he  actually  flourbdied.  lie  «  .1-  " 
the  Western  Marches;  and  from  the  rijr'mt  with  which  he  re- 
pressed the  Border  excpuet,  the  name  "f  Belted  Will  Howard  it 
•till  famous  hi  our  traditiou.  The  v  ell-known  name  ot  D.ui  e  is 
derived  from  the  exploit*  of  one  of  their  .m.vtttirs  at  the  siejre  of 
Acre  or  Ptnlemau,  under  Richard  Cn-ii  dr  I.irii.  The  lord  Dacre 
of  this  period,  was  a  man  of  hot  and  obstinate  character,  as  appeari 
from  some  particulars  ..f  I  .,r,l  Suirey's  letter  to  Henry  VIII..  -,'i*  ing 
an  account  nt  his  l,eha\  iinir  .it  tin  ,i,.ae  anil  aim  m  nf  Ji-ilburgh. 

+  Iu  the  wars  with  Scotland.  II. -my  VIII..  an. • 
employed  numerous  bauds  ot  nn 

Pinky  there  were  in  the  1  -  luitteen. 

m  miltkrteer*  ou  font,  anil   twohinidi<   :  .  ..iu|Hise.l 

chiefly  of  foreigners.    Krom  the  battle -\  ,  ut  K'.?»>- 

ixh  painters,  we  U'arn  that  Ui.'  I,m  -. 

marched  to  ail  <u&ault  with  their  riyht  knees  baied. 


CANTO  IVJ  LAST  MINSTREL.  49 

Slew  Fergus  with  my  lance  outright — 

I  had  him  long  at  high  despite  : 

He  drove  my  cows  last  Eastern's  night." 

VII. 

Now  weary  scouts  from  Liddesdale, 

Fast  hurrying  in,  confirmed  the  tale; 

As  far  as  they  could  judge  by  ken, 

Three  hours  would  bring  to  Teviot's  strand 
Three  thousand  armed  Englishmen. — 

Meanwhile,  full  many  a  warlike  band, 
From  Teviot,  Aill,  and  Ettrick  shade. 
Came  in,  their  Chiefs  defence  to  aid, 

VIII. 

From  fair  St  Mary's  silver  wave, 

From  dreary  Gamescleuch's  dusky  height, 
His  ready  lances  Thirlestane  brave* 

Arrayed  K>  'e:ith  a  banner  bright, 
The  treasured  Heur-de-luce  he  claims 
To  wreathe  his  shield,  since  royal  James, 
Encamped  by  Fala's  mossy  wave, 
The  proud  distinction  grateful  gave, 

For  faith  mid  feudal  jars; 
What  time,  save  Thirlestane  alone, 
Of  Scotland's  stubborn  barons  none 

Would  march  to  southern  wars; 
And  hence,  in  fair  remembrance  worn, 
Yon  sheaf  of  spears  his  crest  has  borne : 
Hence  his  high  motto  shines  revealed, — 
"  Ready,  a)  e  ready,"  for  the  field. 

IX. 

An  aged  knight,  to  danger  steeled, 
With  many  a  moss-trooper,  came  on: 


*  When  James  had  assembled  hia  nobility  at  Fain,  to  invade 
England,  and  was  disappointed  by  their  refusal,  Sii  John  Scott  of 
Thirlestane  alone  declared  dims  if  ready  to  follow  the  king  wher- 
ever he  should  lead.  In  memory  of  his  'fidelity,  Jain's  granted  to 
bis  family  a  charter  of  arms,  entitling  them  to  bear  a  border  of 
fleurs-de-We,  similar  to  the  tr  usiirf  in  the  royal  arias,  with  m 
bundle  of  spears  for  the  crest;  motto,  Ready,  aye  ready. 
C 


SO  iAY  OF  THE  {CANTO  IV. 

And  azure  in  a  golden  field, 

The  stars  and  crescent  graced  his  shield, 

Without  the  bend  of  Murdieston.* 
Wide  lay  his  lands  round  Oakwood  tower, 
And  wide  round  haunted  Castle-Ower; 
High  over  Borthwick's  mountain  flood, 
His  wood-embosomed  mansion  stood; 
In  the  dark  glen,  so  deep  below, 
The  herds  of  plundered  England  low ; 
His  bold  retainers'  daily  food, 
And  bought  with  danger,  blows,  and  blood. 
Marauding  chief!  his  sole  delight 
The  moonlight  raid,  the  morning  fight; 
Not  even  the  Flower  of  Yarrow's  charms, 
In  youth,  might  tame  his  rage  for  arms; 
And  still,  in  age,  he  spurned  at  rest, 
And  still  his  brows  the  helmet  pressed, 
Albeit  the  blanched  locks  below 
Where  white  as  Dinlay's  spotless  snow: 

Five  stately  warriors  drew  the  sword 
Before  their  father's  band; 

A  braver  knight  than  Harden's  lord 
Ne'er  belted  on  a  brand. 

x. 

Whitslade  the  Hawk,  and  Headshaw  came, 
And  warriors  more  than  I  may  name; 
From  Yarrow-cleuch  to  Hindhaugh-swair, 

From  Woodhouselie  to  Chester-glen, 
Trooped  man  and  horse,  and  bow  and  spear; 

Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden.T 
And  better  hearts  o'er  Border  sod 
To  siege  or  rescue  never  rode. 

*  Walter  Scott  of  Harden,  who  flourished  during  the  reign  of 
Queen  Mary,  was  a  renowned  Border  freebooter,  whose  castle  was 
situate  upon  the  very  brink  of  a  dark  and  precipitous  dell,  through 

cess  of  this  glen  he  is  said  to  have  kept  his  spoil,  which  served  for 
the  daily  maintenance  ot  his  retainers,  until  the  production  of  a 
pair  of  clean  spurs  in  a  covered  dish,  announced  to  the  hungry 
band,  that  they  must  ride  for  a  supply  of  provisions.  He  wa» 
married  to  Mary  Scott,  called  in  song  the  Flower  or  Yarrow. 

t  Ballenden  is  situated  ne  ir  the  head  of  Borthwick  water,  and, 
being  in  the  centre  of  the  possessions  of  the  Scotts,  was  frequently 
used  a»  their  place  of  rendezvous  and  gathering  word. 


CANTO  IV.] 


LAST  MINSTREL.  51 


The  Ladye  marked  the  aids  come  in, 
And  high  her  heart  of  pride  arose ; 
She  hade  her  youthful  son  attend, 
That  he  might  know  his  father's  friend, 

And  learn  to  face  his  foes. 
"  The  boy  is  ripe  to  look  on  war ; 

I  saw  him  draw  a  cross-bow  stiff, 
And  his  true  arrow  struck  afar 

The  raven's  nest  upon  the  cliff; 
The  Red  Cross,  on  a  southern  breast, 
Is  broader  than  the  raven's  nesti 
Thou,  Whitslade,  shalt   teach   him  his  weapon  to 
And  o'er  him  hold  his  father's  shield."        [wield, 


Well  may  you  think,  the  wily  Page 

Cared  not  to  face  the  Ladye  sage. 

He  counterfeited  childish  fear, 

And  shrieked,  and  shed  full  many  a  tear, 

And  moaned  and  plained  in  manner  wild. 
The  attendants  to  the  Ladye  told, 

Some  fairy,  sure,  had  changed  the  child, 

That  wont  to  be  so  free  and  bold. 
Then  wrathful  was  the  noble  dame; 
She  blushed  blood-red  for  very  shame : — 
"  Hence !  ere  the  clan  his  faintness  view ; 
Hence  with  the  weakling  to  Buccleuch ! — 
Watt  Tinlinn,  thou  shalt  be  his  guide 
To  Rangleburn's  lonely  side. — 
Sure  some  fell  fiend  has  cursed  our  line, 
That  coward  should  e'er  be  son  of  mine  I" 

XII. 

A  heavy  task  Watt  Tinlinn  had, 
To  guide  the  counterfeited  lad. 
Soon  as  his  palfrey  felt  the  weight 
Of  that  ill-omen'd  elvish  freight, 
He  bolted,  sprung,  and  reared  amain, 
Nor  heeded  bit,  nor  curb,  nor  rein. 
It  cost  Watt  Tinlinn  raickle  toil 
To  drive  him  but  a  Scottish  mile; 
But,  as  a  shallow  brook  they  crossed, 


52  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  I? 

The  elf,  amid  the  running  stream, 
His  figure  changed,  like  lorm  in  dream, 

And  fled,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost !" 
Full  fast  the  urchin  ran  and  laughed, 
But  faster  still  a  cloth-yard  shaft 
Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew, 
And  pierced  his  shoulder  through  and  through. 
Although  the  imp  might  not  be  slain, 
And  though  the  wound  scon  healed  again, 
Yet,  as  he  ran,  he  yelled  for  pain ; 
And  Watt  of  Tinlinn,  much  aghast, 
Rode  back  to  Branksome  fiery  fast. 


Soon  on  the  hill's  steep  verge  he  stood, 
That  looks  o'er  Branksome's  towers  and  wood ; 
And  martial  murmurs,  from  below, 
Proclaimed  the  approaching  southern  foe. 
Through  the  dark  wood,  in  mingled  tone, 
Were  Border-pipes  and  bugles  blown ; 
The  coursers'  neighing  he  could  ken, 
And  measured  tread  of  marching  men ; 
While  broke  at  times  the  solemn  hum, 
The  Almayn's  sullen  kettle-drum ; 

And  banners  tall,  of  crimson  sheen, 
Above  the  copse  appear ; 

And,  glistening  through  the  hawthorns  green, 
Shine  helm,  and  shield,  and  spear. 

XIV. 

Light  forayers  first,  to  view  the  ground, 
Spurred  their  fleet  coursers  loosely  round 

Behind,  in  close  array  and  fast, 
The  Kendal  archers,  all  in  green, 

Obedient  to  the  bugle  blast, 

Advancing  from  the  wood  are  seen. 
To  back  and  guard  the  archer  band, 
Lord  Dacre's  bill-men  were  at  hand ; 
A  hardy  race,  on  Irthing  bred, 
With  kirtles  white,  and  crosses  red, 
Arrayed  beneath  the  banner  tall, 
'  That  streamed  o'er  Acre's  conquered  wall ; 


CANTO  IV.]  LAST  MINSTREL. 


53 


And  minstrels,  as  they  marched  in  order.          [der." 
Played,  "  Noble  Lord  Dacre,  he  dwells  on  the  Bor- 


Behind  the  English  bill  and  bow, 
The  mercenaries,  firm  and  slow, 

Moved  on  to  fight,  in  dark  array, 
By  Conrad  led  of  Wolfenstein, 
TV  ho  brought  the  band  from  distant  Rhine, 

And  sold  their  blood  for  foreign  pay. 
The  camp  their  home,  their  law  the  sword, 
They  knew  no  country,  owned  no  lord  :* 
They  were  not  armed  like  England's  sons, 
But  bore  the  levin-darting  guns; 
Buff-coats,  all  frounced  and  'broidered  o'er, 
And  morsing-horns+  and  scarfs  they  wore ; 
Each  better  knee  was  bared,  to  aid 
The  warriors  in  the  escalade  ; 
All,  as  they  marched,  in  rugged  tongue, 
Songs  of  Teutonic  feuds  they  sung. 


But  louder  still  the  clamour  grew, 

And  louder  still  the  minstrels  blew, 

When,  from  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

Rode  forth  Lord  Howard's  chivalry ; 

His  men  at  arms,  with  glaive  and  spear, 

Brought  up  the  battle's  glittering  rear. 

There  many  a  youthf  A  knight,  full  keen 

To  gain  his  spurs,  in  arms  was  seen ; 

With  favour  in  his  crest,'  or  glove, 

Memorial  of  his  ladye-love. 

So  rode  they  forth  in  fair  array, 

Till  full  their  lengthened  lines  display; 

Then  called  a  halt,  and  made  a  stand, 

And  cried,  "  St  George,  for  merry  England  !" 

»  Such  were  the  mercenary  soldiers  who  figure  in  the  middle 
ages  under  the  names  of  Brabau^oixs,  Candottierri,  and  Free-Com- 
panion* who  farmed  their  serv*cea  fo  the  best  bidders,  and  pro- 
claimed themselves  "the  friends  of  God,  and  enemies  of  all  the 
world.' 

t  Powder  flasks. 


54  LAY  OF  THE 


[CANTO  IV 


XVII. 

Now  every  English  eye,  intent, 
On  Brauksome  s  armed  towers  was  bent ; 
So  near  they  were,  that  they  might  know 
The  straining  harsh  of  each  cross-bow ; 
On  battlement  and  bartizan 
Gleamed  axe,  and  spear,  and  partizan ; 
Falcon  and  culver,*  on  each  tower, 
Stood  prompt  their  deadly  hail  to  shower; 
And  flashing  armour  frequent  broke 
From  eddying  whirls  of  sable  smoke, 
Where,  upon  tower  and  turret  head, 
The  seething  pitch  and  molten  lead 
Keeked,  like  a  witch's  cauldron  red. 
While  yet  they  gaze,  the  bridges  fall, 
The  wicket  opes,  and  from  the  wall 
Rides  forth  the  hoary  Seneschal. 

XVIII. 

Armed  he  rode,  all  save  the  head, 

His  white  beard  o'er  his  breast-plate  spread ; 

Unbroke  by  age,  erect  his  seat, 

He  ruled  his  eager  courser's  gait ; 

Forced  him,  with  chastened  fire,  to  prance, 

And,  high  curvetting,  slow  advance : 

In  sign  of  truce,  his  better  hand 

Displayed  a  peeled  willow  wand; 

His  squire,  attending  in  the  rear, 

Bore  high  a  gauntlet  on  a  spear. -f 

When  they  espied  him  riding  out, 

Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Dacre  stout 

Sped  to  the  front  of  their  array, 

To  hear  what  .this  old  knight  should  say. 

XIX. 

"  Ye  English  warden  lords,  of  you 
Demands  the  Ladye  of  Buccleuch, 

»  Ancient  pieces  of  artillery. 

•  *  A  glove  upon  a  lance  was  the  emblem  of  faith  among  the  an- 
cient Borderers,  who  were  wont,  when  any  one  broke  his  word, 
to  expose  this  emblem,  and  proclaim  him  a  faithless  villain  at  tli« 
first  Border  meeting. 


CANTO  IV.  1 


LAST  MINSTEEL.  55 


Why,  'gainst  the  truce  of  Border-tide, 

In  hostile  guise  ye  dare  to  ride, 

With  Kendal  bow,  and  Gilsland  brand, 

And  all  your  mercenary  band, 

Upon  the  bounds  of  fair  Scotland  ? 

My  Ladye  reads  you  swith  return; 

And,  if  but  one  poor  straw  you  burn, 

Or  do  our  towers  so  much  molest, 

As  scare  one  swallow  from  her  nest, 

St  Mary!  but  we'll  light  a  brand, 

Shall  warm  your  hearths  in  Cumberland." 


A  wrathful  man  was  Dacre's  lord. 
But  calmer  Howard  took  the  word  : — 
"  May't  please  thy  Dame,  Sir  Seneschal, 
To  seek  the  castle's  outward  wall; 
Our  pursuivant-at-arms  shall  show, 
Both  why  we  came,  and  when  we  go." 
The  message  sped,  the  noble  Dame 
To  the  walls'  outward  circle  came; 
Each  chief  around  leaned  on  his  spear, 
To  see  the  pursuivant  appear. 
All  in  Lord  Howard's  livery  dressed, 
The  lion  argent  decked  his  breast; 
He  led  a  boy  of  blooming  hue — 
O  sight  to  meet  a  mother's  view ! 
It  was  the  heir  of  great  Buccleuch. 
Obeisance  meet  the  herald  made, 
And  thus  his  master's  will  he  said. 

XXI. 

"  It  irks,  high  Dame,  my  noble  Lords, 
'Gainst  ladye  fair  to  draw  their  swords: 
But  yet  they  may  not  tamely  see, 
All  through  the  western  wardenry, 
Your  law-contemning  kinsmen  ride, 
And  burn  and  spoil  the  Border-side; 
And  ill  beseems  your  rank  and  birth 
To  make  your  towers  a  flemens-firth.* 

*  An  asylum  for  oatlaw*. 


6b  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  IV 

We  claim  from  thee  William  of  Deloraine, 
That  he  may  suffer  march-treason  pain:* 
It  was  but  last  St  Cuthbert's  even 
He  pricked  to  Stapleton  on  Leven, 
Harried'f'  the  lands  of  Richard  Musgrave, 
And  slew  his  brother  by  dint  of  glaive. 
Then,  since  a  lone  and  widowed  Dame 
These  restless  riders  may  not  tame, 
Either  receive  within  thy  towers 
Two  hundred  of  my  master's  powers, 
Or  straight  they  sound  their  warison,J 
And  storm  and  spoil  thy  garrison; 
And  this  fair  boy,  to  London  led, 
Shall  good  King  Edward's  page  be  bred." 

XXII. 

He  ceased — and  loud  the  boy  did  cry, 

And  stretched  his  little  arms  on  high; 

Implored  for  aid  each  well-known  face,  , 

And  strove  to  seek  the  Dame's  embrace. 

A  moment  changed  that  Ladye's  cheer,  , 

Gushed  to  her  eye  the  unbidden  tear; 

She  gazed  upon  the  leaders  round, 

And  dark  and  sad  each  warrior  frowned; 

Then,  deep  within  her  sobbing  breast 

She  locked  the  struggling  sigh  to  rest; 

Unaltered  and  collected  stood, 

And  thus  replied,  in  dauntless  mood. 

XXIII. 

"  Say  to  your  Lords  of  high  emprize, 

Who  war  on  woman  and  on  boys, 

That  either  William  of  Deloraine 

Will  cleanse  him,  by  oath,  of  march-treason  stain, § 

*  Several  species  of  offences,  peculiar  to  the  Border,  constituted 
what  was  called  march-treason.  Among  others,  was  the  crime  cf 
riding,  or  causing  to  ride,  against  the  opposite  country  during  the 
rime  of  truce. 

t  Plundered .  t  Note  of  assault. 

f  In  dubioiu  cases,  the  innocence  of  Border-criminal*  WM 
occasionally  referred  to  their  own  oath. 


CANTO  IV.]  LAST   MINSTREL.  57 

Or  else  he  will  the  combat  take 
'Gainst  Musgrave,  for  his  honour's  sake. 
No  knight  in  Cumberland  so  good, 
But  William  may  count  with  him  kin  and  blood. 
Knighthood  he  took  of  Douglas'  sword, 
When  English  blood  swellsd  Ancram  ford  ;* 
And  but  that  Lord  Dacre's  steed  was  wight, 
And  bare  him  ably  in  the  flight, 
Himself  had  seen  him  dubbed  a  knight. 
For  the  young  heir  of  Brauksome's  line, 
God  he  his  aid,  and  God  he  mine ; 
Through  me  no  friend  shall  meet  his  doom ; 
Here  while  I  live,  no  foe  finds  room. 

Then,  if  thy  lords  their  purpose  urge, 
Take  our  defiance  loud  and  high ; 

OUT  slogan  is  their  lyke-wake-)-  dirge, 

Our  moat,  the  grave  where  they  shall  lie." 


Prond  she  looked  round,  applause  to  claim — 
Then  lightened  Thirlestane's  eye  of  flame ; 

His  bugle  Watt  of  Harden  blew ; 
Pensils  and  pennons  wide  were  flung, 
To  heaven  the  Border  slogan  rung, 

"  St  Mary  for  the  young  Buccleuch  f* 
The  English  war-cry  answered  wide, 

And  forward  bent  each  southern  spear ; 
Each  Kendal  archer  made  a  stride, 

And  drew  the  bow-string  to  his  ear : 
Each  minstrel's  war-note  loud  was  blown ; 
But,  ere  a  gray-goose  shaft  had  flown, 

A  horseman  galloped  from  the  rear. 


*  The  dignity  of  knighthood,  according  to  the  original  institu- 
tion, had  this  peculiarity,  that  it  did  not  flow  from  the  monarch 
but  could  be  conferred  by  one  who  himself  possessed  it,  upon  any 
squire  who,  after  due  probation,  was  found  to  merit  the  honour 
of  chivalry.  The  battle  of  Ancram  Moor,  or  Peniel -heuch,  which 
was  fought  A.  D.  IMS,  was  considered  sufficient  prooation  for  that 
honour.  The  English,  commanded  by  Sir  Ralph  Evers  and  Sir 
Brian  Latoun,  were  totally  route-',  and  both  their  leaders  slain  in 
the  action.  The  Scottish  army  was  commanded  by  Archibald 
Douglas,  Earl  of  Angus,  assisted  by  the  laird  of  Bnccleuch  and 
Norman  Lesley. 

t  Lyke-wake,  the  watching  a  corpse  prerious  to  interment. 

c2 


gg  LAY  OF  THE  [CAirTOK. 

XXV. 

"  Ah !  noble  Lords  F'  he,  breathless,  said, 

"What  treason  has  your  march  betrayed? 

What  make  you  here,  from  aid  so  far, 

Before  you  walls,  around  you  war? 

Your  foemen  triumph  in  the  thought, 

That  in  the  toils  the  lion's  caught. 

Already  on  dark  Ruberslaw 

The  Douglas  holds  his  weapon-schaw : 

The  lances,  waving  in  his  train, 

Clothe  the  dun  heath  like  autumn  grain; 

And  on  the  Liddle's  northern  strand, 

To  bar  retreat  to  Cumberland, 

Lord  Maxwell  ranks  his  merry-men  good, 

Beneath  the  eagle  and  the  rood ; 

And  Jedwood,  Eske,  and  Teviotdale, 

Have  to  proud  Angus  come  ; 
And  all  the  Merse  and  Lauderdale 
Have  risen  with  haughty  Home. 
An  exile  from  Northumberland, 

In  Liddesdale  I've  wandered  long; 
But  still  my  heart  was  with  merry  England, 

And  cannot  brook  my  country's  wrong, 
And  hard  I've  spurred  all  night,  to  show 
The  mustering  of  the  coming  foe." 

XXVI. 

"  And  let  them  come  !"  fierce  Dacre  cried; 
"  For  soon  yon  crest,  my  father's  pride, 
That  swept  the  shores  of  Judah's  sea, 
And  waved  in  gales  of  Galilee, 
From  Branksome's  highest  towers  displayed, 
Shall  mock  the  rescue's  lingering  aid  !— 
Level  each  harquebuss  on  row ; 
Draw,  merry  archers,  draw  the  bow; 
Up,  bill-men,  to  the  walls,  and  cry, 
Dacre  for  England,  win  or  die  !" 

XXVII. 

"  Yet  hear,"  quoth  Howard,  "  calmly  hear, 
Nor  deem  my  words  the  words  of  fear : 

»  Weapon-schaw,  the  military  array  of  a  county. 


CANTO  JV.l  LAST  MINSTEEL.  59 

For  who  in  field  or  foray  slack 

Saw  the  blanche  liou  e'er  fall  back?* 

But  thus  to  risque  our  Border  flower 

In  strife  against  a  kingdom's  power, 

Ten  thousand  Scots  'gainst  thousands  three, 

Certes,  were  desperate  policy. 

Nay,  take  the  terms  the  Ladye  made, 

Ere  conscious  of  the  advancing  aid  : 

Let  Musgrave  meet  fierce  Deloraine-1" 

In  single  fight ;  and  if  he  gain, 

He  gains  for  us  ;  but  if  he's  crossed, 

'Tis  but  a  single  warrior  lost : 

The  rest,  retreating  as  they  came, 

Avoid  defeat,  and  death,  and  shame.'1* 

XXVIII. 

Ill  could  the  haughty  Dacre  brook 
His  brother- warden's  sage  rebuke ; 
And  yet  his  forward  step  he  staid, 
And  slow  and  sullenly  obeyed : 
But  ne'er  again  the  Border  side 
Did  these  two  lords  in  friendship  ride ; 
And  this  slight  discontent,  men  say, 
Cost  blood  upon  another  day. 

XXIX. 

The  pursuivant-at-arms  again 

Before  the  castle  took  his  stand ; 
His  trumpet  called,  with  parleying  strain, 

The  leaders  of  the  Scottish  band ; 
And  he  defied,  in  Musgrave' s  right, 
Stout  Deloraine  to  single  fight ; 
A  gauntlet  at  their  feet  he  laid, 
And  thus  the  terms  of  fight  he  said : — 
"  If  in  the  lists  good  Musgrave's  sword 

Vanquish  the  knight  of  Deloraine, 
Your  youthful  chieftain,  Branksome's  lord, 

Shall  hostage  for  his  clan  remain  : 

»  This  was  the  cognisance  of  the  noble  house  of  Howard  in  all 
its  branches.    The  crest,  or  bearing,  of  a  warrior,  was  often  u»ed 

+  Trial  by  single  combat,  80  peculiar  to  the  feudal  system,  waa 
common  on  the  Border*. 


60  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  IT. 

If  Deloraine  foil  good  Musgrave, 
The  boy  his  liberty  shall  have. 

Howe'er  it  falls,  the  English  band, 
Unharming  Scots,  by  Scots  unharmed, 
In  peaceful  march  like  men  unarmed, 

Shall  straight  retreat  to  Cumberland." 


Unconscious  of  the  near  relief, 

The  proffer  pleased  each  Scottish  chief, 

Though  much  the  Ladye  sage  gainsayed  : 
For  though  their  hearts  were  brave  and  true, 
From  Jedwood's  recent  sack  they  knew, 

How  tardy  was  the  regent's  aid  ; 
And  you  may  guess  the  noble  Dame 

Durst  not  the  secret  prescience  own, 
Sprung  from  the  art  she  might  not  name, 

By  which  the  coming  help  was  known. 
Closed  was  the  compact,  and  agreed 
That  lists  should  be  enclosed  with  speed 

Beneath  the  castle  on  a  lawn  : 
They  fixed  the  morrow  for  the  strife, 
On  foot,  with  Scottish  axe  and  knife, 

At  the  fourth  hour  from  peep  of  dawn  ; 
When  Deloraine,  from  sickness  freed, 
Or  else  a  champion  in  his  stead, 
Should  for  himself  and  chieftain  stand, 
Against  stout  Musgrave,  hand  to  hand. 


I  know  right  well,  that,  in  their  lay, 
Full  many  minstrels  sing  and  say, 

Such  combat  should  be  made  on  horse, 
On  foaming  steed,  in  full  career, 
With  brand  to  aid,  when  as  the  spear 

Should  shiver  in  the  course  : 
But  he,  the  jovial  Harper,  taught* 
Me,  yet  a  youth,  how  it  was  fought, 

In  guise  which  now  I  say  : 

'  *  The  person,  here  alluded  to,  is  one  of  om  ancient   Border 
minstrels,  called  Rattling  Hearing  Willie.     Willie    chanced  to 


CANTO  IV.3  LAST  MINSTREL. 

He  knew  each  ordinance  and  clause 
Of  black  Lord  Archibald's  battle  laws, 

In  the  old  Douglas'  day. 
He  brooked  not,  he,  that  scoffing  tongue 
Should  tax  his  minstrelsy  with  wrong, 

Or  call  his  song  untrue  : 
For  this  when  they  the  goblet  plied, 
And  such  rude  taunt  had  chafed  his  pride, 

The  hard  of  Reull  he  slew. 
On  Teviot's  side,  in  fight,  they  stood, 
And  tuneful  hands  were  stained  with  blood; 
Where  still  the  thorn's  white  branches  wave, 
Memorial  o'er  his  rival's  grave. 


Why  should  I  tell  the  rigid  doom, 
That  dragged  my  master  to  his  tomb ; 

How  Ousenam's  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
Wept  till  their  eyes  were  dead  and  dim, 
And  wrung  their  hands  for  love  of  him, 

Who  died  at  Jedwood  Air  ? 
He  died ! — his  scholars,  one  by  one, 
To  the  cold  silent  grave  are  gone ; 
And  I,  alas !  survive  alone, 
To  muse  o'er  rivalries  of  yore, 
And  grieve  that  I  shall  hear  no  more 
The  strains,  with  envy  heard  before ; 
For,  with  my  minstrel  brethren  fled, 
My  jealousy  of  song  is  dead. 


61 


HE  paused  : — the  listening  dames  again 
Applaud  the  hoary  Minstrel's  strain ; 
With  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer, — 
In  pity  half,  and  half  sincere, — 
Marvelled  the  Duchess  how  so  well 
His  legendary  song  could  tell — 

quarrel  with  oneof  his  own  profession,  distinguished  by  the  odd  name 
of  Sweet  Milk,  from  a  place  on  Rule  water  so  called.  They  retired 
to  decide  the  contest  with  their  swords,  and  Sweet  Milk  was  killed 
on  the  spot ;  in  consequence  of  which  Willie  was  taken  and  executed 
at  Jedburgh,  bequeathing  his  name  to  the  beautiful  Scotch  air, 
wOled  "Rattling  Boaring  Willie." 


62 


LAY  OF  THE  [CAKTO  T. 


Of  ancient  deeds,  so  long  forgot ; 
Of  feuds,  whose  memory  was  not ; 
Of  forests,  now  laid  waste  and  bare ; 
Of  towers,  which  harbour  now  the  hare ; 
Of  manners,  long  since  changed  and  gone  ; 
Of  chiefs,  who  under  their  gray  stone 
So  long  had  slept,  that  fickle  Fame 
Had  blotted  from  her  rolls  their  name, 
And  twined  round  some  new  minion's  head 
The  fading  wreath  for  which  they  bled ; — 
In  sooth,  'twas  strange,  this  old  man's  verse 
Could  call  them  from  their  marble  hearse. 

The  Harper  smiled,  well  pleased ;  for  ne'er 
Was  flattery  lost  on  poet's  ear : 
A  simple  race  !  they  waste  their  toil 
For  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile ; 
E'en  when  in  age  their  flame  expires, 
Her  dulcet  breath  can  fan  its  fires  : 
Their  drooping  fancy  wakes  at  praise, 
And  strives  to  trim  the  short-lived  blaze. 

Smiled  then,  well-pleased,  the  Aged  Man, 
And  thus  his  tale  continued  ran. 


CANTO  FIFTH, 
i. 

CALL  it  not  vain  : — they  do  not  err, 
Who  say,  that,  when  the  Poet  dies, 

Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper, 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies ; 

Who  say,  tall  cliff,  and  cavern  lone, 

For  the  departed  bard  make  moan ; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill ; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil ; 

Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  algh, 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groan,  reply ; 


CANTO    V-1 


LAST  MINSTREL.  63 


And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 


Not  that,  in  sooth,  o'er  mortal  urn 

Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn ; 

But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale, 

Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 

Of  those,  who,  else  forgotten  long, 

Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song, 

And,  with  the  poet's  parting  breath. 

Whose  memory  feels  a  second  death. 

The  maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot, 

That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot, 

From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  the  tear 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel's  bier  : 

The  phantom  knight,  his  glory  fled, 

Mourns  o'er  the  fields  he  heaped  with  dead ; 

Mounts  the  wild  blast  that  sweeps  amain, 

And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plain  : 

The  chief,  whose  antique  crowtlet  long 

Still  sparkled  in  tl.e  feudal  song, 

Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne, 

Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 

His  ashes  undistinguished  lie, 

His  place,  his  power,  his  memory  die  : 

His  groans  the  lonely  caverns  fill, 

His  tears  of  rage  impel  the  rill ; 

All  mourn  the  minstrel's  harp  unstrung, 

Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 

in. 

Scarcely  the  hot  assault  was  staid, 
The  terms  of  truce  were  scarcely  made, 
When  they  could  spy,  from  Branksome's  towers, 
The  advancing  march  of  martial  powers  ; 
Thick  clouds  of  dust  afar  appeared, 
And  trampling  steeds  were  faintly  heard ; 
Bright  spears,  above  the  columns  dun, 
Glanced  momentary  to  the  sun ; 
And  feudal  banners  fair  displayed 
The  bands  that  moved  to  Branksome's  aid. 


64  LAY  OF  THE  {CANTO  V. 

IV. 

'Vails  not  to  tell  each  hardy  clan, 

From  the  fair  Middle  Marches  came ; 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  van,* 

Announcing  Douglas,  dreaded  name  ! 
'Vails  not  to  tell  what  steeds  did  spurn, 
Where  the  Seven  Spears  of  Wedderburn+ 

Their  men  in  battle-order  set ; 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest, 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 

Of  Clarence's  Plantagenet.J 
Nor  lists,  I  say,  what  hundreds  more, 
From  the  rich  Merse  and  Lammermore, 
And  Tweed's  fair  borders,  to  the  war, 
Beneath  the  crest  of  old  Dunbar, 

And  Hepburn's  mingled  banners  come, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  glittering  far, 

And  shouting  still,  "  a  Home !  a  Home  P'§ 


Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksome  sent, 

On  many  a  courteous  message  went ; 

To  every  chief  and  lord  they  paid 

Meet  thanks  for  prompt  and  powerful  aid  ; 

And  told  them, — how  a  truce  was  made, 
And  how  a  day  of  fight  was  ta'en 
'Twixt  Musgrave  and  stout  Deloraine ; 
And  how  the  Ladye  prayed  them  dear, 

*  The  bloody  heart  was  the  well-known  cognisance  of  the  house 
of  Douglas,  assumed  from  t.ie  time  of  Good  I^ord  James,  to  whose 
care  Robert  Bruce  committed  his  heart,  to  be  carried  to  the  Holy 

t  Sir  David  Home  of  Wedderburn,  slain  in  the  fatal  battle  of 
Flodden,  left  seven  sons  who  were  called  the  Seven  Spears  of 
Wedderburne. 

J  At  the  battle  of  Bouge  in  France,  Thomas,  Duke  of  Clarence, 
brother  to  Henry  V.,  ivas  unhorsed  by  Sir  John  Swinton  of  Swiu- 
ton,  who  distinguished  him  by  a  cjronet  set  with  precious  stones, 
which  he  wore  around  his  helmet. 

§  The  Earls  of  Home,  were  descendants  of  the  Dunbars,  ancient 
Earls  of  March  The  slogan,  or  war-cry,  of  this  powerful  family 
was,  "a  Home!  a  Home!"  The  Hepburiu,  a  powerful  family  ul 
East  Lothian,  were  usually  in  close  alliance  with  the  Ho 


CANTO  V.]  LAST  MINSTREL.  66 

That  all  would  stay  the  fight  to  see, 

And  deign,  in  love  and  courtesy, 
To  taste  of  Branksome  cheer. 
Nor,  while  they  bade  to  feast  each  Scot, 
Were  England's  noble  Lords  forgot ; 
Himself,  the  hoary  Seneschal, 
Kode  forth,  in  seemly  terms  to  call 
Those  gallant  foes  to  Branksome  Hall. 
Accepted  Howard,  than  whom  knight 
Was  never  dubbed,  more  bold  in  fight; 
Nor,  when  from  war  and  armour  free, 
More  famed  for  stately  courtesy : 
But  angry  Dacre  rather  chose 
In  his  pavilion  to  repose. 

VI. 

Now,  noble  Dame,  perchance  you  ask, 

How  these  two  hostile  armies  met  ? 
Deeming  it  were  no  easy  task 

To  keep  the  truce  which  here  was  set; 
Where  martial  spirits,  all  on  fire, 
Breathed  only  blood  and  mortal  ire. — 
By  mutual  inroads,  mutual  blows, 
By  habit,  and  by  nation,  foes, 

They  met  on  Teviot's  strand  : 
They  met,  and  sate  them  mingled  down, 
Without  a  threat,  without  a  frown, 

As  brothers  meet  in  foreign  land : 
The  hands,  the  spear  that  lately  grasped, 
Still  in  the  mailed  gauntlet  clasped, 

Were  interchanged  in  greeting  dear ; 
Visors  were  raised,  and  faces  shown, 
And  many  a  friend,  to  friend  made  known, 

Partook  of  social  cheer. 
Some  drove  the  jolly  bowl  about ; 

With  dice  and  draughts  some  chased  the  day ; 
And  some,  with  many  a  merry  shout, 
In  riot  revelry,  and  rout, 

Pursued  the  foot-ball  play.* 

*  The  foot-ban  was  anciently  a  very  favourite  iport  all  through 
Scotland,  but  especially  ou  the  Borders. 


66 


LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  V, 


Yet  be  it  known,  had  bugles  blown, 

Or  sign  of  war  been  seen ; 
Those  bands,  so  fair  together  ranged, 
Those  hands,  so  frankly  interchanged, 

Had  dyed  with  gore  the  green : 
The  merry  shout  by  Teviot-side 
Had  sunk  in  war-cries  wild  and  wide, 

And  in  the  groan  of  death ; 
And  whingers,*  now  in  friendship  bare, 
The  social  meal  to  part  and  share, 

Had  found  a  bloody  sheath. 
'Twixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  unfrequent,  nor  held  strange, 

In  the  old  Border-day  ;t 
But  yet  on  Branksome's  towers  and  town, 
In  peaceful  merriment,  sunk  down 

The  sun's  declining  ray. 


The  blithesome  signs  of  wassel  gay 
Decayed  not  with  the  dying  day ; 
Soon  through  the  latticed  windows  tall, 
Of  lofty  Branksome's  lordly  hall, 
Divided  square  by  shafts  of  stone, 
Huge  flakes  of  ruddy  lustre  shone  ; 
Nor  less  the  gilded  rafters  rang 
With  merry  harp  and  beakers'  clang ; 

And  frequent,  on  the  darkening  plain, 
Loud  hollo,  whoop,  or  whistle  ran, 

As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain. 

Give  the  shrill  watch- word  of  their  clan ; 

And  revellers,  o'er  their  bowls,  proclaim 

Douglas  01  Dacre's  conquering  name. 

»  A  sort  of  knife,  or  poniard. 

t  Notwithstanding  the  constant  wars  upon  the  Bordert,  the 
Inhabitants  on  either  side  appear  to  have  regarded  each  other  lik« 
the  outposts  of  hostile  armies,  and  often  carried  on  something  re- 
sembling friendly  intercourse,  even  in  the  middle  of  hostilities,  84 
that  the  governments  of  both  countries  were  jealous  of  their 
cherishing  too  Ultimate  a  connexion. 


CANTO  T.]  LIST  MWSTREL.  67 

IX. 
Lees  frequent  heard,  and  fainter  still, 

At  length  the  various  clamours  died  ; 
And  you  might  hear,  from  Branksome  hill, 

No  sound  but  Teviot's  rushing  tide ; 
Save,  when  the  changing  sentinel 
The  challenge  of  his  watch  could  tell ; 
And  save,  where,  through  the  dark  profound, 
The  clanging  axe  and  hammer's  sound 

Rung  from  the  nether  lawn ; 
For  many  a  husy  hand  toiled  there, 
Strong  pales  to  shape,  and  heams  to  square, 
The  lists'  dread  barriers  to  prepare, 

Against  the  morrow's  dawn. 

x. 

Margaret  from  hall  did  soon  retreat, 

Despite  the  Dame's  reproving  eye, 
Nor  marked  she,  as  she  left  her  seat, 

Full  many  a  stifled  sigh : 
For  many  a  noble  warrior  strove 
To  win  the  flower  of  Teviot's  love, 

And  many  a  bold  ally. — 
With  throbbing  head  and  anxious  heart. 
All  in  her  lonely  bower  apart, 

In  broken  sleep  she  lay : 
By  times,  from  silken  couch  she  rose ; 
While  yet  the  bannered  hosts  repose, 

She  viewed  the  dawning  day  : 
Of  all  the  hundreds  sunk  to  rest, 
First  woke  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 

XI. 

She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court, 

Which  in  the  tower's  tall  shadow  lay ; 
Where  coursers'  clang,  and  stamp,  and  snort, 

Had  rung  the  live-long  yesterday ; 
Now  still  as  death  ; — till,  stalking  slow, — 

The  jingling  spurs  announced  his  tread, — 
A  stately  warrior  passed  below  ; 

But  when  he  raised  his  plumed  head — 
Blessed  Mary !  e  in  it  be  ? — 


68  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO 

Secure,  as  if  in  Ousenam  bowers, 

He  walks  through  Branksome's  hostile  towers 

With  fearless  step  and  free. 
She  dare  not  sign,  she  dare  not  speak — 
Oh  !  if  one  page's  slumbers  break, 

His  blood  the  price  must  pay ! 
Not  all  the  pearls  Queen  Mary  wears, 
Not  Margaret's  yet  more  precious  tears, 

Shall  buy  his  life  a  day. 

XII. 

Yet  was  his  hazard  small — for  well 
You  may  beihink  you  of  the  spell 

Of  that  sly  urchin  Page; 
This  to  his  lord  he  did  impart 
And  made  him  seem,  by  glamour  art, 

A  knight  from  Hermitage. 
Unchallenged,  thus,  the  warder's  post, 
The  court,  unchallenged,  thus  he  crossed, 

For  all  the  vassalage : 
But,  O !  what  magic's  quaint  disguise 
Could  blind  fair  Margaret's  azure  eyes ! 

She  started  from  her  seat ; 
While  with  surprise  and  fear  she  strove, 
And  both  could  scarcely  master  love — 

Lord  Henry's  at  her  feet. 


Oft  have  I  mused,  what  purpose  bad 
That  foul  malicious  urchin  had 

To  bring  this  meeting  round ; 
For  happy  love's  a  heavenly  sight, 
And  by  a  vile  malignant  sprite 

In  such  no  joy  is  found: 
And  oft  I've  deemed,  perchance  ho  thought 
Their  erring  passion  might  have  wrought 

Sorrow,  and  sin,  and  shame; 
And  death  to  Cranstoun's  gallant  Knight, 
And  to  the  gentle  Ladye  bright, 

Disgrace,  and  loss  of  fame. 
But  earthly  spirit  could  not  tell 
The  heart  of  them  that  loved  so  well; 


CANTO  V.]  LAST  MINSTREL.  „       69 

True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven. 

It  is  not  Fantasy's  hot  fire, 

Whose  wishes,  soon  as>  granted,  fly; 

It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire, 

With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die : 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy, 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie, 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind, 
In  hody  and  in  soul  can  bind. — 
Now  leave  we  Margaret  and  her  Knight, 
To  tell  you  of  the  approaching  fight. 

XIV. 

Their  warning  blast  the  bugles  blew, 
The  pipe's  shrill  port  aroused  each  clan; 

In  haste,  the  deadly  strife  to  view, 
The  trooping  warriors  eager  ran : 

Thick  round  the  lists  their  lances  stood, 

Like  blasted  pines  in  Ettricke  wood; 

To  Branksome  many  a  look  they  threw, 

The  combatants'  approach  to  view, 

And  bandied  many  a  word  of  boast, 

About  the  knight  each  favoured  most. 
XV. 

Meantime  full  anxious  was  the  Dame ; 

For  now  arose  disputed  claim, 

Of  who  should  fight  for  Deloraine, 

'Twixt  Harden  and  'twixt  Thirlestaine: 
They  'gan  to  reckon  kin  and  rent, 
And  frowning  brow  on  brow  was  bent; 

But  yet  not  long  the  strife — for,  lo! 
Himself,  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Strong,  as  it  seemed,  and  free  from  pain, 
In  armour  sheathed  from  top  to  toe, 

Appeared,  and  craved  the  combat  due. 

The  Dame  her  charm  successful  knew, 

And  the  fierce  chiefs  their  claims  withdrew. 

XVI. 

When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  Ladye's  iilken  rein 


70  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  7 

Did  noble  Howard  hold; 
Unarmed  by  her  side  he  walked, 
And  much,  in  courteous  phrase,  they  talked 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb,  his  Flemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet,  shaped  of  buff, 

With  satin  slashed,  and  lined; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur, 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

His  hose  with  silver  twined; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Called  noble  Howard,  Belted  Will. 

XVII. 

Behind  Lord  Howard  and  the  Dame, 
Fair  Margaret  on  her  palfrey  came, 

Whose  foot-cloth  swept  the  ground; 
White  was  her  wimple,  and  her  veil, 
And  her  loose  locks  a  chaplet  pale 

Of  whitest  roses  bound ; 
The  lordly  Angus,  by  her  side, 
In  courtesy  to  cheer  her  tried; 
Without  his  aid,  her  hand  in  vain 
Had  strove  to  guide  her  broidered  rein. 
He  deemed,  she  shuddered  at  the  sight 
Of  warriors  met  for  mortal  fight; 
But  cause  of  terror,  all  unguessed, 
Was  fluttering  in  her  gentle  breast, 
When,  in  their  chairs  of  crimson  placed, 
The  Dame  and  she  the  barriers  graced. 

XVIII. 

Prize  of  the  field,  the  young  Buccleuch 
An  English  knight  led  forth  to  view; 
Scarce  rued  the  boy  his  present  plight, 
So  much  he  longed  to  see  the  fight. 
Within  the  lists,  in  knightly  pride, 
High  Home  and  haughty  Dacre  ride; 
Their  leading  staffs  of  steel  they  wield, 
As  marshals  of  the  mortal  field : 


CAMTO  V]  LAST  MINSTREL. 

While  to  each  knight  their  care  assigned 
Like  vantage  of  the  sun  and  wind. 
Then  heralds  hoarse  did  loud  proclaim, 
In  king  and  queen,  and  wardens'  name, 

That  none,  while  lasts  the  strife, 
Should  dare,  by  look,  or  sign,  or  word, 
Aid  to  a  champion  to  afford, 

On  peril  of  his  life; 
And  not  a  breath  the  silence  broke, 
Till  thus  the  alternate  heralds  spoke : 

XIX. 

ENGLISH  HERALD. 

Here  standeth  Richard  of  Musgrave, 

Good  knight  and  true,  and  freely  born, 
Amends  from  Deloraine  to  crave, 

For  foul  despiteous  scathe  and  scorn. 
He  sayeth,  that  William  of  Deloraino 

Is  traitor  false  by  Border  laws; 
This  with  his  sword  he  will  maintain, 

So  help  him  God,  and  his  good  causa! 

xx. 

SCOTTISH  HERALD. 

Here  standeth  William  of  Deloraine, 
Good  knight  and  true,  of  noble  strain, 
Who  sayeth,  that  foul  treason's  stain, 
Since  he  bore  arms,  ne'er  soiled  his  coat; 
And  that,  so  help  him  God  above, 
He  will  on  Musgrave  s  body  prove, 
He  lyes  most  foully  in  his  throat 

LORD  DACRE. 

Forward,  brave  champions,  to  the  fight! 
Sound  trumpets ! 

LORD  HOME. 

"  God  defend  the  right!" — 

Then,  Teviot !  how  thine  echoes  rang, 
When  bugle-sound  and  trumpet-clang 

Let  ioose  the  martial  foes, 
And  in  mid  list,  with  shield  poised  high, 
And  measured  step  and  wary  eye, 

The  combatants  did  close. 


71 


72  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  V. 

XXI. 

Ill  would  it  suit  your  gentle  ear, 

Ye  lovely  listeners,  to  hear 

How  to  the  axe  the  helms  did  sound, 

And  blood  poured  down  from  many  a  wound; 

For  desperate  was  the  strife,  and  long, 

And  either  warrior  fierce  and  strong. 

But,  were  each  dame  a  listening  knight, 

I  well  could  tell  how  warriors  fight; 

For  I  have  seen  war's  lightning  flashing, 

Seen  the  claymore  with  bayonet  clashing, 

Seen  through  red  blood  the  war-horse  dashing, 

And  scorned,  amid  the  reeling  strife, 

To  yield  a  step  for  death  or  life. 

XXII. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretched  him  on  the  bloody  plain ; 

He  strives  to  rise — Brave  Musgrave,  no  ! 
Thence  never  shalt  thou  rise  again! 

He  chokes  in  blood — some  friendly  hand 

Undo  the  visor's  barred  band, 

Unfix  the  gorget's  iron  clasp, 

And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp! — 

O,  bootless  aid ! — haste  holy  Friar, 

Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire ! 

Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven, 

And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven. 

XXIII. 

In  haste  the  holy  Friar  sped ; — 
His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red, 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran ; 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high, 
That  hailed  the  conqueror's  victory, 

He  raised  the  dying  man ; 
Loose  waved  his  silver  beard  and  hair, 
As  o'er  him  he  kneeled  down  in  prayer; 
And  still  the  crucifix  on  high 
He  holds  before  his  darkening  eye ; 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear, 
His  faltering  penitence  to  hear ; 


CAMTO  V.]  1AST  MINSTREL.  73 

Still  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod, 
Still,  even  when  soul  and  body  part, 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 

And  bids  him  trust  in  God ! 
Unheard  he  prays  ; — the  death  pang's  o'er ! — 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more. 


As  if  exhausted  in  the  fight, 
Or  musing  o'er  the  piteous  sight, 

The  silent  victor  stands ; 
His  beaver  did  he  not  unclasp, 
Marked  not  the  shouts,  felt  not  the  grasp 

Of  gratulating  hands. 
When  lo  !  strange  cries  of  wild  surprise, 
Mingled  with  seeming  terror,  rise 

Among  the  Scottish  bands ; 
And  all,  amid  the  thronged  array, 
In  panic  haste  gave  open  way 
To  a  half-naked  ghastly  man, 
Who  do  ,,-nward  from  the  castle  ran  : 
He  crossed  the  barriers  at  a  bound, 

And  wild  and  haggard  looked  around, 
As  dizzy,  and  in  pain ; 

And  all,  upon  the  armed  ground, 

Knew  William  of  Deloraine  ! 
Each  ladye  sprung  from  seat  with  speed ; 
Vaulted  each  marshall  from  his  steed ; 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  they  cried, 
"Who  hast  this  battle  fought  and  won?" 
His  plumed  helm  was  soon  undone — 

"  Cranstoun  of  Teviotside ! 
For  this  fair  prize  I've  fought  and  won,"- 
And  to  the  Ladye  led  her  son. 


Full  oft  the  rescued  boy  she  kissed, 
And  often  pressed  him  to  her  breast ; 
For,  under  all  her  dauntless  show, 
Her  heart  had  throbbed  at  every  blow ; 
Yet  not  Lord  Cranstonn  deigned  she  greet, 
Though  low  he  kneeled  at  her  feet. — 

D 


74  LAY  OF  THK  [CANTO  V 

Me  lists  not  tell  what  words  •were  made, 
What  Douglas,  Home,  and  Howard  said-— 

— For  Howard  was  a  generous  foe — 
And  how  the  clan  united  prayed, 

The  Ladye  would  the  feud  forego, 
And  deign  to  bless  the  nuptial  hour 
Of  Cranstoun' s  Lord  and  Teviot's  Flower. 


She  looked  to  river,  looked  to  hill, 

Thought  on  the  Spirit's  prophecy. 
Then  broke  her  silence  stern  and  still, — 

"  Not  you,  but  Fate,  has  vanquished  me ; 
Their  influence  kindly  stars  may  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower, 

For  pride  is  quelled,  and  love  is  free." 
She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand, 
Who,  breathless,  trembling,  scarce  might  stand ; 

That  hand  to  Cranstoun  s  lord  gave  she. 
"As  I  am  true  to  thee  and  thine, 
Do  thou  be  true  to  me  and  mine ! 

This  clasp  of  love  our  bond  shall  be ; 
For  this  is  your  betrothing  day, 
And  all  these  noble  lords  shall  star, 

To  grace  it  with  their  company. ' 


All  as  they  left  the  listed  plain, 

Much  of  the  story  she  did  gain  : 

How  Cranstoun  fought  with  Deloraine, 

And  of  his  Page,  and  of  the  Book, 

Which  from  the  wounded  knight  he  took  ; 

And  how  he  sought  her  castle  nigh, 

That  morn,  by  help  of  gramarye ; 

How,  in  Sir  William's  armour  dight, 

Stolen  by  his  Page,  while  slept  the  knight, 

He  took  on  him  the  single  ftgiit. 

But  half  his  tale  he  left  unsaid, 

And  lingered  till  he  joined  the  maid. — 

Cared  not  the  Ladye  to  betray 

Her  mystic  arts  <n  view  of  day ; 


CANTO  V.]  LAST  MINSTREL.  75 

But  'well  she  thought ;  ere  midnight  came, 

Of  that  strange  Page  the  pride  to  tame, 

From  his  foul  hands  the  Book  to  save, 

And  send  it  back  to  Michael's  grave. — . 

Needs  not  to  tell  each  tender  word 

Twist  Margaret  and  'twixt  Cranstoun's  lord; 

Nor  how  she  told  of  former  woes, 

And  how  her  bosom  fell  and  rose, 

While  he  and  Musgrave  bandied  blows — 

Needs  uot  these  lovers'  joys  to  tell ; 

One  day,  fair  maids,  you'll  know  them  well. 


William  of  Deloraine,  some  chance 
Had  wakened  from  his  deathlike  trance ; 

And  taught  that,  in  the  listed  plain, 
Another,  in  his  arms  and  shield, 
Ag°inst  fierce  Musgrave  axe  did  wield, 

Under  the  name  of  Deloraine. 
Hence,  to  the  field,  unarmed,  he  ran, 
And  hence  his  presence  scared  the  clan, 
Who  held  him  for  some  fleeting  wraith,* 
And  not  a  man  of  blood  and  breath. 

Not  much  this  new  ally  he  loved, 

Yet,  when  he  saw  what  hap  had  proved, 
He  greeted  him  right  heartilie  : 

He  would  not  waken  old  debate, 

For  he  was  void  of  rancorous  hate, 

Though  rude,  and  scant  of  courtesy ; 
In  raids  he  spilt  but  seldom  blood, 
Unless  when  men  at  arms  withstood, 
Or,  as  was  meet,  for  deadly  feud. 
He  ne'er  bore  grudge  for  stalwart  blow, 
Ta'en  in  fair  light  from  gallant  foe  : 

And  so  'twas  seen  of  him,  e'en  now, 

\V  hen  on  dead  Musgrave  he  looked  down ; 

Grief  darkened  on  his  rugged  brow, 

Though  half  disguised  with  a  frown ; 
And  thus,  while  sorrow  beiit  his  head, 
His  foeman's  epitaph  he  made. 

*  The  spectral  apparition  of  a  living  person. 


76  LAY  01'  TIUC  [CAHTO  V. 

XXIX. 

"  Now,  Richard  Musgrave,  liest  thou  here ! 

I  -ween,  my  deadly  enemy  ; 
For  if  I  slew  thy  brother  dear, 

Thou  slewest  a  sister's  son  to  me; 
And  when  I  lay  ia  dungeon  dark, 

Of  Naworth  Castle,  long  months  three, 
Till  ransomed  for  a  thousand  mark, 

Dark  Musgrave,  it  was  long  of  thee. 
And,  Musgrave,  could  our  tight  be  tried, 

And  thou  wert  now  alive,  as  I, 
No  mortal  man  should  us  divide, 

Till  one,  or  both  of  us,  did  die  : 
Yet,  rest  thee  God !  for  well  I  know, 
I  ne'er  shall  lind  a  nobler  foe. 
In  all  the  northern  counties  here, 
Whose  word  is,  Snatte,  spur,  and  spear,* 
Thou  wert  the  best  to  follow  gear. 
'Twas  pleasure,  as  we  looked  behind, 
To  see  how  thou  the  chace  couldst  wind, 
Cheer  the  dark  blood-hound  on  his  way, 
And  with  the  bugle  rouse  the  fray  !•)• 
I'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine, 
DarK  Musgrave  were  alive  again." 

XXX. 

80  mourned  he,  till  Lord  Dacre's  band 
Were  bowning  back  to  Cumberland. 
They  raised  brave  Musgrave  from  the  field, 
And  laid  him  on  his  bloody  shield ; 
On  levelled  lances,  four  and  four, 
By  turns,  the  noble  burden  bore  : 
Before,  at  times,  upon  the  gale, 
Was  heard  the  Minstrel's  plaintive  wail ; 
Behind,  four  priests,  in  sable  stole, 
Sung  requiem  for  the  warrior's  soul : 

*  The  lands,  that  over  Oute  to  Berwick  forth  do  bear, 
Have  for  their  blazon  had,  the  sualle,  spur,  and  spear. 

Potly-albton,  Song  xxxiH. 

t  The  pursuit  of  Border  marauders  was  followed  by  the  in- 
jured party  and  his  friends  with  blood-hounds  and  bugle-bore, 
and  was  called  the  hot-trod.  He  was  entitled,  if  bin  day  could 
trace  the  scent,  to  follow  the  invaders  into  the  opposite  kingdom ; 
a  privilege  which  often  occasioned  bloodshed. 


LAST  MINSTREL.  77 


CANTO  V.] 

Around,  the  horsemen  slowly  rode ; 
With  trailing  pikes  the  spearmen  trod ; 
And  thus  the  gallant  knight  they  hore, 
Through  Liddesdale,  to  Leven's  shore ; 
Thence  to  Holme  Coltrame's  lofty  nave, 
And  laid  him  in  his  father's  grave. 


THE  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hushed  the  song, 

The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong ; 

Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  a-near, 

Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear ; 

Now  seems  some  mountain  side  to  sweep, 

Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep ; 

Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail, 

Now  the  sad  requiem  loads  the  gale ; 

Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 

Bung  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave. 

After  due  pause,  they  bade  him  tell, 
Why  he  who  touched  the  harp  so  well, 
Should  thus,  with  ill-rewarded  toil, 
Wander  a  poor  and  thankless  soil, 
When  the  more  generous  southern  land 
Would  well  requite  his  skilful  hand. 

The  Aged  Harper,  howsoe'er 
His  only  friend,  his  harp,  was  dear, 
Liked  not  to  hear  it  ranked  so  high 
Above  his  flowing  poesy ; 
Less  liked  he  still  that  scornful  jeer 
Misprized  the  land,  he  loved  so  dear ; 
High  was  the  sound,  as  thus  again 
The  Bard  resumed  his  minstrel  strain. 


78  LAY  OF  THE  ICANTO  VI. 


CANTO  SIXTH. 

i. 

BREATHES  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unsung. 

n. 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild, 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 

Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band, 

That  knits  me  to  thy  ragged  strand ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now.  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  wooas  and  streams  were  left, 

And  thus  I  love  tnem  newer  still, 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettricke  break, 

Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 

The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 


CANTO  VI.J  LAST  MINSTREL.  79 


Not  scorned  like  me  !  to  Branksomo  Hall 
The  Minstrels  came,  at  festive  call ; 
Trooping  they  came,  from  near  and  far, 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war ; 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared, 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan, 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van, 
But  now,  for  every  merry  mate, 
Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate ; 
They  sound  the  pipe,  they  strike  the  string, 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing, 
Till  the  rude  turrets  shake  and  ring. 

IT. 

Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 

The  splendour  of  a  spousal  rite, 
How  mustered  in  the  chapel  fair 

Both  maid  and  matron,  squire  and  knight ; 
Me  lists  not  tell  of  owches  rare, 
Of  mantles  gresn,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furred  with  miniver ; 
What  plumage  waved  the  altar  round, 
How  spurs,  and  ringing  chainlets,  sound : 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek ; 
That  lovely  hue,  which  comes  and  flies, 
Aa  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise ! 


Some  bards  have  sung,  the  Ladye  high 
Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh ; 
Nor  durst  tho  rites  of  spousal  grace, 
So  much  she  feared  each  holy  place. 
.  False  slanders  these  : — I  trust  right  well, 
She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell  ;* 


*  Popular  belief,  made  a  favourable  distinction  betwixt  magi- 
command  the  evil  spirits,  and  the  latter  to  serve,  or  at  leant  to  bo 


80  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  VI 

"or  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 
O'er  sprites  in  planetary  hour : 
Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part, 
Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art. 

But  this  for  faithful  truth  I  say: 
The  Ladye  by  the  altar  stood, 

Of  sable  velvet  her  array, 

And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood, 
With  pearls  embroidered  and  entwined, 
Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermine  lined ; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist, 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist.* 


The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon  : 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon, 
And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 
Steward  and  squire,  with  hee  Iful  haste, 
Marshalled  the  rank  of  every  guest ; 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share : 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane, 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, 
And  o'er  the  boar-head,  garnished  brave, 
And  cygnet  from  St  Mary's  wave  ;f 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  veiiison, 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din, 
Above,  beneath,  without,  within  ! 
For  from  the  lofty  balcony, 
Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery ; 

»  A  merlin,  or  sparrow-hawk,  was  usually  carried  by  ladies  of 
rank,  as  a  falcon  was,  in  time  of  peace,  by  a  knight  or  baron. 

t  I  he  peacock  was  considered,  during  chivalrous  times,  a  dish 
of  pecuhar  solemnity.  It  was  introduced  on  days  of  grand  festival, 
and  was  the  signal  for  the  adventurous  knights  to  vnw  toiS 
perilous  deed  "before  the  peacock  and  the  ladies."  The  boar's 
head  was  also  a  dish  of  feudal  splendour.  In  Scotland  it  WM 
sometimes  surrounded  with  little  banners,  displavine  the  colours 
of  the  baron  at  whose  board  it  was  served.  St'Marv's  Lake,  at 
the  head  of  the  river  Yarrow,  is  often  the  resort  of  mints  of  wild 
•waua. 


CAIfTO  VI] 


^ST  MINSTREL 


Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaffed, 
Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laughed; 
Whispered  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild, 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 
The  hooded  hawks,  high  perched  on  heam, 
The  clamour  joined  with  whistling  scream, 
And  flapped  their  wings,  and  shook  their  belli, 
In  concert  with  the  stag-hounds'  yells. 
Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine,     _ 
From  Bourdeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine; 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 

VII. 

The  Goblin  Page,  omitting  still 

No  opportunity  of  ill, 

Strove  now,  while  blood  ran  hot  and  high, 

To  rouse  debate  and  jealousy  ; 

Till  Conrad,  lord  of  Wolfenstein, 

By  nature  fierce,  and  warm  with  wine, 

And  now  in  humour  highly  crossed, 

About  some  steeds  his  band  had  lost, 

High  words  to  words  succeeding  still,  _ 

Smote,  with  his  gauntlet,  stout  Hunthill  ; 

A  hot  and  hardy  Rutherford, 

Whom  men  called  Dickon  Draw-the-Sword. 

He  took  it  on  the  Page's  saye, 

Hunthill  had  driven  these  steeds  away. 

Then  Howard,  Home,  and  Douglas  rose, 

The  kindling  discord  to  compose  : 

Stern  Rutherford  right  little  said, 

But  bit  his  glove,  and  shook  his  head.  —  t 

A  fortnight  thence,  in  Ingle  wood, 

Stout  Conrad,  cold,  and  drenched  in  blood, 

His  bosom  gored  with  many  a  wound, 

Was  by  a  woodman's  lyme-dog  found  ; 

Unknown  the  manner  of  his  death, 

Gone  was  his  brand,  both  sword  and  sheath  ; 


^ 


+  To  bite  the  thumb,  or  the 
upon  the  Border,  a»  a  pledge 


82  LAY  OF  THE  LCANTO  VI. 

But  ever  from  that  time,  'twas  said, 
That  Dickon  wore  a  Cologne  blade. 

Till. 

The  Dwarf,  who  feared  his  master's  eye 

Might  his  foul  treachery  espie, 

Now  sought  the  castle  buttery, 

Where  many  a  yeoman,  bold  and  free, 

Revelled  as  merrily  and  well 

As  those,  that  sat  in  lordly  selle. 

Watt  Tinliiin,  there,  did  frankly  raise 

The  pledge  to  Arthur  Fire- the- Braes  ;* 

And  he,  as  by  his  breeding  bound, 

To  Howard's  merry-men  sent  it  round. 

To  quit  them,  on  the  English  side, 

Red  Roland  Forster  loudly  cried, 

"  A  deep  carouse  to  yon  fair  bride  !" 

At  every  pledge,  from  vat  and  pail, 

Foamed  forth,  in  floods,  the  nut-brown  ale ; 

While  shout  the  riders  every  one, 

Such  day  of  mirth  ne'er  cheered  their  clan, 

Since  old  Buccleuch  the  name  did  gain, 

When  in  the  cleuch  the  buck  was  ta'en.'f1 

IX. 

The  wily  Page,  with  vengeful  thought, 

Remembered  him  of  Tinlinn's  yew, 
And  swore,  it  should  be  dearly  bought, 

That  ever  he  the  arrow  drew. 
First,  he  the  yeoman  did  molest, 
With  bitter  gibe  and  taunting  jest ; 
Told,  how  he  fled  at  Solway  strife, 
And  how  Hob  Armstrong  cheered  his  wife ; 
Then,  shunning  still  his  powerful  arm, 
At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm ; 

*  The  person  bearing  this  redoubtable  nomme  de  guerre,  was  an 
Elliot,  and  resided  at  Thorleshope,  in  Liddesdale.  He  occurs  in 
the  list  of  Border  riders,  in  1597. 

t  The  old  Scottish  tradition  is,  that  the  founder  of  the  Buccleuch 
family  was  a  Galwegian  exile,  who  ran  down  and  secured  a  buck, 
which  had  thrown  out  Kenneth  Macalpine  and  all  hi*  nobles  ijQ 


CANTO  VL]  LAST  MINSTKKL. 

From  trencher  stole  his  choicest  cheer, 

Dashed  from  his  lips  his  can  of  beer, 

Then,  to  his  knee  sly  creeping  on, 

With  bodkin  pierced  him  to  the  bone : 

The  venomed  wound,  and  festering  joint, 

Long  after  rued  that  bodkin's  point. 

The  startled  yeoman  swore  and  spurned, 

And  board  and  flaggons  overturned ; 

Riot  and  clamour  wild  began ; 

Back  to  the  hall  the  urchin  ran ; 

Took  in  a  darkling  nook  his  post, 

And  grinned  and  muttered,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost  r 

X. 

By  this,  the  Dame,  lest  further  fray 

Should  mar  the  concord  of  the  day, 

Had  bid  the  Minstrels  tune  their  lay. 

And  first  stept  forth  old  Albert  Graeme, 

The  Minstrel  of  that  ancient  name  : 

Was  none  who  struck  the  harp  so  well, 

Within  the  land  Debateable ; 

Well  friended  too,  his  hardy  kin, 

Whoever  lost,  were  sure  to  win ; 

They  sought  the  beeves,  that  made  their  broth, 

In  Scotland  and  in  England  both. 

In  homely  gutee,  as  nature  bade, 

His  simple  song  the  Borderer  said. 

XL 

ALBERT  GRAEME. 


It  was  an  English  ladye  bright 

The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  she  would  marry  a  Scottish  knight, 
For  Love  will  still  be  lord  of  all. 

Blithely  they  saw  the  rising  sun, 
When  he  shone  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

But  they  were  sad  ere  day  was  done, 
Though  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Ber  sire  gave  brooch  and  jewel  fine 
Where  the  sun  shines  fail  on  Carlisle  wall; 


84  LAT  OP  THE  C  CANTO  VI 

Her  brother  gave  but  a  flask  of  -wine, 
For  ire  that  Love  was  lord  of  all. 

For  she  had  lands,  both  meadow  and  lee, 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  he  swore  her  death,  ere  he  would  see 
A  Scottish  knight  the  lord  of  all ! 

XII. 
That  wine  she  had  not  tasted  well, 

The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 
When  dead,  in  her  true  love's  arms,  she  fell, 

For  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

He  pierced  her  brother  to  the  heart, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall  ;— 

So  perish  all,  would  true  love  part, 
That  Love  may  still  be  lord  of  all ! 

And  then  he  took  the  cross  divine, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  died  for  her  sake  in  Palestine, 
So  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Now  all  ye  lovers,  that  faithful  prove, 

The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 
Pray  for  their  souls,  who  died  for  love, 

For  Love  shall  still  be  lord  of  all  1 

XIII. 

As  ended  Albert's  simple  lay, 
Arose  a  bard  of  loftier  port ; 
For  sonnet,  rhime,  and  roundelay, 

Renowned  in  haughty  Henry's  court : 
There  rung  thy  harp,  unrivalled  long, 
Fitztraver  of  the  silver  song. 
The  gentle  Surrey  loved  his  lyre — 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Surrey's  fame? 
His  was  the  hero's  soul  of  fire, 

And  his  the  bard's  immortal  name, 
And  his  was  love,  exalted  high 
By  all  the  glow  of  chivalry.* 

*  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  the  most  accomplished  cavalier 
of  his  time,  wan  beheaded  on  Towerhill  in  1546 ;  a  victim  to  tha 


CANTO  VI 3  "  "" "   " 


LAST  MINSTREL. 


XIV. 

They  sought,  together,  climes  afar, 

And  oft,  within  some  olive  grove, 
When  evening  came,  with  twinkling  star, 

They  sung  of  Surrey's  absent  love. 
His  step  the  Italian  peasant  staid, 

And  deemed,  that  spirits  from  on  high, 
Round  where  some  hermit  saint  was  kid, 

Were  breathing  heavenly  melody; 
So  sweet  did  harp  and  voice  combine, 
To  praise  the  name  of  Geraldine. 

xv. 

Fitztraver !  O  what  tongue  may  say 

The  pangs  thy  faithful  bosom  knew, 
When  Surrey,  of  the  deathless  lay, 

Ungrateful  Tudor  s  sentence  slew? 
Regardless  of  the  tyrant's  frown, 
His  harp  called  wrath  and  vengeance  down. 
He  left,  for  Naworth's  iron  towers, 
Windsor's  green  glades,  and  courtly  bowers, 
And,  faithful  to  his  patron's  name, 
With  Howard  still  Fitztraver  came ; 
Lord  William's  foremost  favourite  he, 
And  chief  of  all  his  minstrelsy. 

XTI. 
FITZTRAVER. 

'Twos  All-soul's  eve,  and  Surrey's  heart  beat  high ; 

He  heard  the  midnight-bell  with  anxious  start, 
Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching  nigh, 

When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by  his  art, 
To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart, 

Albeit  betwixt  them  roared  the  ocean  grim ; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his  part, 

mean  jealousy  of  Henry  Y1IT.  It  is  said  that  in  his  travels,  Cor- 
neliusAgrippa,  the  celebrated  alchemist,  showed  him,  m  a  look- 
fag-"lassrtbe  lovely  Geraldine,  to  whose  service  he  had  devoted 
SI  pen  aVid  his  sword.  The  vision  represented  her  as  indisposed, 
ami  reclined  upon  *  couch,  reading  bar  lover's  verse,  by  the  light 
of  a  waxen  taper. 


$6  LA*  0V  THE  [CAOTO  Vi, 

That  he  should  see  her  form  in  life  and  limb. 
And  mark,  if  still  she  loved,  and  still  she  thought 
of  him. 

XVII. 

Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gramarye, 

To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gallant  knight, 
Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and  high, 

A  hallowed  taper  shed  a  glimmering  light 
On  mystic  implements  of  magic  might, 

On  cross,  and  character,  and  talisman, 
And  almagest,  and  altar,  nothing  bright : 

For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and  wan, 
As  watch-light,  by  the  bed  of  some  departing  man, 

XVIII. 

But  soon,  within  that  mirror,  huge  and  high, 

Was  seen  a  self-emitted  light  to  gleam ; 
And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  earl  'gan  spy, 

Cloudy  and  indistinct,  as  feverish  dream; 
Till,  slow  arranging,  and  denned,  they  seem 

To  form  a  loi  dly  and  a  lofty  room, 
Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver  beam, 

Placed  by  a  couch  of  Agra's  silken  loom, 
And  part  by  moonshine  pale,  and  part  was  hid  hi 
gloom. 

XIX. 

Fair  all  the  pageant — but  how  passing  fair 

The  slender  form,  which  lay  on  couch  of  Ind ! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her  hazel  hair, 

Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she  pined ; 
All  in  her  night-robe  loose,  she  lay  reclined, 

And,  pensive,  read  from  tablet  eburnine 
Some  strain,  that  seemed  her  inmost  soul  to  find : — 

That  favoured  strain  was  Surrey's  raptured  line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Ladye  Geraldine. 


Slow  rolled  the  clouds  upon  the  lovely  form, 
And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all  away — 

So  royal  envy  rolled  the  murky  storm 
O'er  my  beloved  Master's  glorious  daj. 


CANTO  VI.]  LAST  MINSTREL. 

Thou  jealous,  ruthless  tyrant !  Heaven  repay 
On  thee,  and  on  thy  children's  latest  line, 

The  wild  caprice  of  thy  despotic  sway, 

The  gory  bridal  bed,  the  plundered  shrine, 
The  murdered  Surrey's  blood,  the  tears  of  Geraldine ! 

XXI. 

Both  Scots,  and  Southern  chiefs,  prolong 
Applauses  of  Fitztraver's  song : 
These  hated  Henry's  name  as  death, 
And  those  still  held  the  ancient  faith. — 
Then,  from  his  seat,  with  lofty  air, 
Rose  Harold,  bard  of  brave  St  Clair; 
St  Clair,  who,  feasting  high  at  Home, 
Had  with  that  Lord  to  battle  come. 
Harold  was  born  where  restless  seas 
Howl  round  the  storm-swept  Orcades ; 
Where  erst  St  Clairs  held  princely  sway, 
O'er  isle  and  islet,  strait  and  bay ; — 
Still  nods  their  palace  to  its  fall, 
Thy  pride  and  sorrow,  fair  Kirkwall !— * 
Thence  oft  he  marked  fierce  Pentland  rave, 
As  if  grim  Odinn  rode  her  wave ; 
And  watched,  the  whilst,  with  visage  pale 
And  throbbing  heart,  the  struggling  sail ; 
For  all  of  wonderful  and  wild 
Had  rapture  for  the  lonely  child. 

XXII. 

And  much  of  wild  and  wonderful, 
In  these  rude  isles,  might  Fancy  cull ; 


88  LAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  VL 

For  thither  came,  in  times  afar, 

Stern  Lochlin's  sons  of  roving  war, 

The  Norsemen,  trained  to  spoil  and  blood, 

Skilled  to  prepare  the  raven's  food ; 

Kings  of  the  main  their  leaders  brave, 

Their  barks  the  dragons  of  the  wave.* 

And  there,  in  many  a  stormy  vale, 

The  Scald  had  told  his  wondrous  tale ; 

And  many  a  Runic  column  high 

Had  witnessed  grim  idolatry. 

And  thus  had  Harold,  in  his  youth, 

Learned  many  a  Saga's  rhime  uncouth, 

Of  that  Sea-Snake,  tremendous  curled, 

Whose  monstrous  circle  girds  the  world ; 

Of  those  dread  Maids,  whose  hideous  yell 

Maddens  the  battle's  bloody  swell  ft 

Of  chiefs,  who,  guided  through  the  gloom 

By  the  pale  death-lights  of  the  tomb, 

Ransacked  the  graves  of  warriors  old, 

Their  faulchions  wrenched  from  corpses'  hold, 

Waked  the  deaf  tomb  with  war's  alarms, 

And  bade  the  dead  arise  to  arms  !J 

With  war  and  wonder  all  on  flame, 

To  Roslin's  bowers  young  Harold  came, 

Where,  by  sweet  glen  and  greenwood  tree, 

He  learned  a  milder  minstrelsy ; 

Yet  something  of  the  Northern  spell 

Mixed  with  the  softer  numbers  welL 


HAROLD. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay ! 
No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell : 

»  The  chiefs  of  the  Ftkingr  or  Scandinavian  pirate*,  assumed 
*he  title  of  Srtkonungr,  or  Sea-kings.  Ships,  in  the  inflated  lan- 
guage of  the  Scalds,  are  often  termed  the  serpents  of  the  ocean. 

t  Thejormungandr,  or  Snake  of  the  Ocean,  whose  folds  surround 
the  earth,  is  one  of  the  wildest  fictions  of  the  old  northern  mytho- 
logy. The  dread  Maids  were  the  falkyriur,  or  Selectors  of  the 
Slain,  despatched  by  Odin  from  Valhala,  to  choose  those  who  were 
to  die,  and  to  distribute  the  contest.  They  are  well  known  to  the 
English  reader,  as  Gray's  Fatal  Sisters. 

+  The  northern  warriors  were  usually  entombed  with  their 
arms,  and  their  other  treasures.  The  ghosts  of  these  warriors 
•were  not  wont  tamely  to  suffer  their  tombs  to  be  plundered  ;  and 
hence  the  mortal  heroes  had  an  additional  temotation  to  attempt 


CANTO  Vi]  LAST  MIHSTREL. 

Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 
That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle.* 

— "  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew ! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay ! 
Rest  tliee  in  Castle  Ravensheudvf- 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white ; 

To  inch+  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water  Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"  Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay ; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch  : 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day !" 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  Ladye-mother  there 

Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

u  Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 

If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 

XXIV. 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wonderous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  rnoo-i-beam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 

ft  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen  ; 
Twas  seen  from  Drydeu's  groves  of  oak, 

And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

guoh  adventures  j  for  they  held  nothing  more  worthy  of  thrir 
valour  than  to  encounter  supernatural  beings. 

*  This  was  a  famUy  name  in  the  house  of  St  Clair.  Henry  St 
Clair,  the  second  of  the  line,  married  Rosabelle,  fourth  daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  fitratherne. 

t  A  large  and  strong  castle,  now  ruinous,  situated  betwixt 
Kirkaldy  and  Dysart,  on  a  steep  crag,  washed  by  the  r'irth  of 
Furrh. 

;  Inch,  Me. 


90  tAY  OF  THE  [CANTO  VI. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  cLapel  proud, 

Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoflined  lie ; 
Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 

Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply.1* 

Seemed  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-hound, 

And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair- 
So  still  they  blaze,  -when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 

And  each  St  Clair  was  buried  there, 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

XXV. 

So  sweet  was  Harold's  piteous  lav, 

Scarce  marked  the  guests  the  darkened  hall, 
Though,  long  before  the  sinking  day, 

A  wonderous  shade  involved  them  all : 
It  was  not  eddying  mist  or  fog, 
Drained  by  the  sun  from  fen  or  bog ; 

Of  no  eclipse  had  sages  told ; 
And  yet,  as  it  came  on  apace, 
Each  one  could  scarce  his  neighbour's  face, 

Could  scarce  his  own  stretched  hand,  behold. 
A  secret  horror  checked  the  feast, 
And  chilled  the  soul  of  every  guest ; 

*  The  beautiful  chapel  of  Knslin  is  still  in  tolerame  preservation. 
It  was  founded  in  1446  by  WUIiriin  M  I'luii.  1'n.u.t.- .  i  Oikney, 
Ac.,  fcc.,  who  built  the  castle  ol  Kusliu,  where  IK'  i 
princely  splendour.  The  chapei  in  iaiJ  to  appear  on  fire  IMVM"II» 
ti  Hie  n  oath  of  any  of  his  descend*  tits.  The  Harm*  of  Koslinwei* 
buried  ui  uiuuui  iu  a  vault  UuiMili  iliu  i:U..^ci  Hour. 


CAJTTO  VI]  "Bt  MINSTREL. 

Even  the  high  Dame  stood  half  aghast, 

She  knew  some  evil  on  the  blast ; 

The  elvish  Page  fell  to  the  ground 

And,  shuddering,  muttered, "  Found !  found !  found  f 

XXVI. 

Then  sudden  through  the  darkened  air 

A  flash  of  lightning  came ; 
So  broad,  so  bright,  so  red  the  glare, 

The  castle  seemed  on  name ; 
Glanced  every  rafter  of  the  hall, 
Glanced  every  shield  upon  the  wall; 
Each  trophied  beam,  each  sculptured  stone, 
Were  instant  seen,  and  instant  gone ; 
Full  through  the  guests'  bedazzled  band 
Resistless  flashed  the  levin-brand. 
And  filled  the  hall  with  smouldering  smoke, 
As  on  the  elvish  Page  it  broke. 

It  broke,  with  thunder  long  and  loud, 

Dismayed  the  brave,  appalled  the  proud, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  larum  rung ; 

On  Berwick  wall,  and  at  Carlisle  withal, 

To  arms  the  startled  warders  sprung. 
When  ended  was  the  dreadful  roar, 
The  elvish  Dwarf  was  seen  no  more  ! 


Some  heard  a  voice  in  Branksome  Hall, 
Some  saw  a  sight,  not  seen  by  all ; 
That  dreadful  voice  was  heard  by  some, 
Cry,  with  loud  summons,  "  GYLBIN,  COME  T 
And  on  the  spot  where  burst  the  brand, 

Just  where  the  Page  had  flung  him  down, 
Some  saw  an  arm,  and  some  a  hand, 

And  some  the  waving  of  a  gown. 
The  guests  in  silence  prayed  and  shook, 
And  terror  dimmed  each  lofty  look  : 
But  none  of  all  the  astonished  train 
Was  so  dismayed  as  Doloraine ; 
His  blood  did  freeze,  bis  brwu  did  uurn, 
Twas  feared  his  mind  would  ne'er  return; 


92  LAY  OF  THE  rcAJTTO  VX. 

For  he  was  speechless,  ghastly,  wan, 
Like  him,  of  whom  the  story  ran, 
Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  iu  Man.* 
At  length,  by  tits,  he  darkly  told, 
With  broken  hint,  and  shuddering  cold — 
That  he  had  seen,  right  certainly, 
A  shape  with  amice  wrapped  around, 
With  a,  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea ; 
And  knew — but  how  it  mattered  not — 
It  was  the  wizard,  Michael  Scott. 


The  anxious  crowd,  with  horror  pale, 
All  trembling,  heard  the  wonderous  tale ; 

No  sound  was  made,  no  word  was  spoke, 

Till  noble  Angus  silence  broke ; 
And  he  a  solemn  sacred  plight 

Did  to  St  Bryde  of  Douglas  make,-}4 

That  he  a  pilgrimage  would  take 

To  Melrose  Abbey,  for  the  sake 

Of  Michael's  restless  sprite. 
Then  each,  to  ease  his  troubled  breast, 
To  some  blessed  saint  his  prayers  addressed— 
Some  to  St  Modan  made  their  vows, 
Some  to  St  Mary  of  the  Lowes, 
Some  to  the  Holy  Rood  of  Lisle, 
Some  to  our  Lady  of  the  Isle ; 
Each  did  his  patron  witness  make, 
That  he  such  pilgrimage  would  take. 
And  monks  should  sing,  and  bells  should  toll, 
All  for  the  weal  of  Michael's  soul. 
While  vows  were  ta'en,  and  prayers  were  prayed, 
'Tis  said  the  noble  Dame,  dismayed, 
Renounced,  for  aye,  dark  magic's  aid. 

»  Called  in  the  Manx  language  the  Mauthe  Doog.  The  story  ig, 
that  a  fool-hardy  person  who  would  question  this  phantom,  received 
surli  a  shock  from  the  interview,  that  he  remained  speechless  till 
Ai*  death,  which  happened  only  three  days  afttir. 

t  This  was  a  favourite  saint  of  the  house  of  Douglas,  and  of  th» 
Earl  ut  Augus,  m  particular. 


CANTO  VI.]  LAST  MINSTREL.  93 

XXIX. 

Nought  of  the  bridal  will  I  tell, 
Which  after  in  short  space  befell ; 
Nor  how  brave  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Blessed  Teviot's  Flower  and  Cranstoune'sheir; 
After  such  dreadful  scene,  'twere  vain 
To  wake  the  note  of  mirth  again ; 
More  meet  it  were  to  mark  the  day 

Of  penitence  and  prayer  divine, 
When  pilgrim-chiefs,  in  sad  array, 

Sought  Melrose  holy  shrine. 

XXX. 

With  naked  foot,  and  sackcloth  vest, 
And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast, 

Did  every  pilgrim  go ; 
The  standers-by  might  hear  uneath, 
Footstep,  or  voice,  or  high-drawn  breath, 

Through  all  the  lengthened  row : 
No  lordly  look,  no  martial  stride, 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride, 

Forgotten  their  renown ; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts,  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallowed  side, 

And  there  they  kneeled  them  down ; 
Above  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave ; 
Beneath  the  lettered  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead ; 
From  many  a  garnished  niche  around, 
Stern  saints,  and  tortured  martyrs,  frowned. 

XXXI. 

And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afar, 
With  sable  cowl  and  scapular, 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due, 
The  holy  Fathers,  two  and  two, 

In  long  procession  came ; 
Taper,  and  host,  and  book  they  bare, 
And  holy  banner,  flourished  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name ; 


94 


IAT  OF  THE  [CANTO  VI. 


Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  Abbot  stretched  his  hand, 

And  blessed  them  as  they  kneeled ; 
With  holy  cross  he  signed  them  all, 
And  prayed  they  might  be  sage  in  hall, 

Aud  fortunate  in  field. 
Then  mass  was  sung,  and  prayers  were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead ; 
And  bells  tolled  out  their  mighty  peal, 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal ; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  rose ; 
Aud  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 
The  awful  burthen  of  the  song, — 

DIES  IR^E,  DIKS  ILLA, 
SOLVET  SiECLUM  IN  FAVILLA; 

While  the  pealing  organ  rung ; 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  my  lay,  so  light  and  vain, 

Tiius  the  holy  Fathers  sung. 

HYMN  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

That  day  of  -wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay  ? 
How  snail  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ? 
When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead ; 
O  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  THOU  the  trembling  sinner's  stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 

HUSHED  is  the  harp — the  Minstrel  gone. 

And  did  he  wander  forth  alone  ? 

Alone,  in  indigence  and  age, 

To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage? 

No — close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower, 

Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower ; 


CANTO  VI.]  LAST  MINSTREL. 

A  simple  hut ;  but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedged  with  green, 
The  cheerful  hearth,  and  lattice  clean. 
There  sheltered  wanderers,  by  the  blaze, 
Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days ; 
For  much  he  loved  to  ope  his  door, 
And  give  the  aid  he  begged  before. 
So  passed  the  winter's  day ;  but  still, 
When  summer  smiled  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balmly  breath, 
Waved  the  blue-bells  on  Newark-heath; 
When  throstles  sung  in  Hare-head  shaw, 
And  corn  \vas  green  on  Carterhaugh, 
And  nourished,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak, 
The  aged  Harper's  soul  awoke  ! 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high, 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry, 
Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay, 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day ; 
And  noble  youths,  the  strain  to  hear, 
Forsook  the  hunting  of  the  deer; 
And  Yarrow,  as  he  rolled  along, 
Bore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  song. 


M  A  R  M  I  0  N, 

A 

TALE   OF  FLODDEN  FIELD: 


IN  SIX  CANTOS. 


ALAS  !    THAT  SCOTTISH  MAID  SHOULD  SING 
THE  COMBAT  WHERE  HER  LOVER  FELL  ! 

THAT  SCOTTISH  BARD  SHOULD  WAKE  THE  STRING, 
THE  TRIUMPH  OF  OUR  FOES  TO  TELL !— LEYDEN. 


THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 
HENRY,    LORD    MONTAGUE 

<frc.  <5-c.  4-c. 

THIS  ROMANCE  IS  INSCRIBED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

IT  is  hardly  to  be  expected,  that  an  Author  whom  the 
Public  has  honoured  with  some  degree  of  applause 
should  not  be  again  a  trespasser  on  their  kindness. 
Yet  the  Author  of  MARMION  must  be  supposed  to  feel 
some  anxiety  concerning  its  success,  since  he  is 
sensible  that  he  hazards,  by  this  second  intrusion, 
any  reputation  which  his  first  Poem  may  have  pro- 
cured him.  The  present  Story  turns  upon  the  private 
adventures  of  a  fictitious  character  ;  but  is  called  a 
Tale  of  Flodden  Field,  because  the  hero's  fate  is  con- 
nected with  that  memorable  defeat,  and  the  causes 
which  led  to  it.  The  design  of  the  Author  was,  if 
possible,  to  apprise  his  readers,  at  the  outset,  of  the 
date  of  his  Story,  and  to  prepare  them  for  the  man- 
ners of  the  Age  in  which  it  is  laid.  Any  historical 
narrative,  far  more  an  attempt  at  Epic  composition, 
exceeded  his  plan  of  a  Romantic  Tale  ;  yet  he  may  be 
permitted  to  hope,  from  the  popularity  of  THE  LAY 
OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL,  that  an  attempt  to  paint 
the  manners  of  the  feudal  times,  upon  a  broader 
scale,  and  in  the  course  of  a  more  interesting  story, 
will  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  Public. 

The  Poem  opens  about  the  commencement  of 
August,  and  concludes  with  the  defeat  of  Flodden, 
4th  September,  1513. 


M  A  R  M  I  O  N. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FIRST. 
To  WILLIAM  STEWART  ROSE,  Esq. 

Ashestiel,  Ettricke  Forets. 

NOVEMBER'S  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear  : 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken. 
So  thick  the  tangled  green-wood  grew, 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through : 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
Vbi  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 
And,  foaming  brown  with  doubled  sp 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  Forest  hills  is  shed ; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam, 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam ; 
Away  hath  passed  the  heather-bell, 
That  bloomed  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell; 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yare. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  sheltered  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines, 
And  yet  a  watery  sun-beam  shines  : 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky, 


-00  MARMION. 

And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill, 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill : 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold, 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold ; 
His  dogs  no  mercy  circlss  v/hf.«l, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel ; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast, 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  •wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Feel  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour, 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanished  flower; 
Their  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask, — Will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay, 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 

Yes,  prattlers,  yes.    The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower ; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie ; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round, 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings ; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  re-appears. 
But  O  !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
Wnat  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike,  and  the  wise ; 
The  mind,  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 
The  hand,  that  grasped  the  victor  steel  ? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows ; 
But  vainly,  vainly,  may  he  shiue, 
Where  Glory  weeps  o'er  NELSON'S  shrine; 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom, 
That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb ! 


[CANTO  T. 


CANTO  I.]  MARMION. 

Deep' graved  in  every  British  heart, 
O  never  let  those  names  depart  ! 
Say  to  your  sons, — Lo,  here  his  grave, 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave ; 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 
Short,  bright,  resistless  cou.  c  was  given; 
Where'er  his  country's  foes  \,ere  found,  • 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 
Till  hurst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Rolled,  blaxed,  destroyed, — and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth, 
Who  bade  the  "conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,*  Trafalgar ; 
Who,~born  to  guide  such  high  emprize, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise ; 
Alas !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave ; 
His  worth,  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour, 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strained  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained, 
The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrained, 
Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause,         [laws. 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  freeman  s 

Had'st  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd  of  power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 
When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand ;  ; 

By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 
As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 
Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering  throne. 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 
The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 
The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 
The  warder  suent  on  the  hill ! 


1 02  MARMION. 

Oh,  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 
When  Death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey, 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood, 
Finn  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway, 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way  ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains, 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day, 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray ; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, — • 
He,  who  preserved  them,  PITT,  lies  here ! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh, 
Because  his  Rival  slumbers  nigh ; 
Nor  be  thy  req/iiescat  dumb, 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed,  and  wanted  most ; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound. 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine, 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below ; 
And,  if  thou  mourn' st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  Him  who  owns  this  grave, 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed, 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings ; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung ; 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 
All  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men; 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
O  here  let  prejudice  depart, 


CCANTO  I 


CANTO  tl  MARMION.  103 

And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 
Record,  that  Fox  a  Briton  died !  ^ 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke, 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave, 
Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurned, 
The  sullie>    jlive-branch  returned, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nailed  her  colours  to  the  mast. 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave, 
A  portion  in  this  honoured  giuve ; 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd  I 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place ; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar ; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  PITT  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessaliau  cave, 
Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 
These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 
The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 
Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 
For  ever  tombed  beneath  the  stone, 
Where,— taming  thought  to  human  pnde  .— 
The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier ; 
O'er  PITT'S  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 
"  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die; 
"  Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom, 
"  Whom  Fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb, 


104  MARMION.  [CANTO  I 

"  But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 

"  Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen  ?" 

Rest,  ardent  Spirits !  till  the  cries 
Of  dying  Nature  bid  you  rise  ; 
Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 
The  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse  : 
Then,  O  how  impotent  and  vain 
This  grateful  tributary  strain ! 
Though  not  unmarked  from  northern  clime, 
Ye  heard  the  Border  Minstrel's  rhyme : 
His  Gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung ; 
The  bard  you  deigned  to  praise,  your  deathless  names 


Stay  yet,  illusion,  stay  a  while, 
My  wildered  fancy  still  beguile ! 
From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part, 
Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart ! 
For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew, 
And  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew, 
And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood, 
That  throbs  through  bard  in  bard-like  mood, 
Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low, 
Though  all  their  mingled  streams  could  flow — 
Woe,  wonder,  and  sensation  high, 
In  one  spring-tide  of  ecstasy. — 
It  will  not  be — it  may  not  last — 
The  vision  of  enchantment's  past : 
Like  frost-work  in  the  morning  ray, 
The  fancied  fabric  melts  away ; 
Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial  stone, 
And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle  are  gone, 
And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear, 
The  choir's  high  sounds  die  on  my  ear. 
Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down, 
The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown, 
The  farm  begirt  with  copse-wood  wild, 
The  gambols  of  each  frolic  child, 
Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tone 
Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Prompt  on  unequal  tasks  to  run, 
Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son : 


CANTO  t]  MABMION.  103 

Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray, 

And  waste  the  solitary  day, 

In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed, 

And  watching  it  float  down  the  Tweed ; 

Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay 

With  which  the  milk-maid  cheers  her  way, 

Marking  its  cadence  rise  and  fail, 

As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  pail, 

She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale : 

Meeter  for  me,  by  yonder  cairn, 

The  ancient  shepherd's  tale  to  learn, 

Though  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear, 

Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 

Of  one,  who,  in  his  simple  mind, 

May  boast  of  book-learned  taste  refined. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell, 
(For  few  have  read  romance  so  well) 
How  still  the  legendary  lay 
O'er  poet's  bosom  holds  its  sway ; 
How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 
Time  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain ; 
And  how  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds, 
By  warriors  wrought  in  steely  weeds, 
Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake ; 
As  when  the  Champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgana' s  fated  house, 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  damons'  force, 
Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse  ; 
Or  when,  Dame  Ganore's  grace  to  move, 
(Alas  !  that  lawless  was  their  love) 
He  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den, 
And  freed  full  sixty  knights ;  or  when, 
A  sinful  man,  and  unconfessed, 
He  took  the  Sangreal's  holy  quest, 
And,  slumbering,  saw  the  vision  high, 
He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye.* 

The  mightiest  chiefs  of  British  song 
Scorned  not  such  legends  to  prolong : 

*  These  allusions  refer  to  the  adventures  of  Sir  Tiauncelot  of  tie 
take  BO  agreeably  told  in  the  old  romance  of  the  Morte  Arthur. 
£  2 


106  MAKMION.  [CANTO  I 

They  gleam  through  Spenser's  elfin  dream, 

And  mix  in  Milton  s  heavenly  theme ; 

And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain, 

Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again,* 

But  that  a  ribald  king  and  court 

Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport ; 

Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay, 

Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay, 

Licentious  satire,  song,  and  play ; 

The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design,    [lofty  line. 

Profaned  the  God-given  strength,  and  marred  the 

Warmed  by  such  names,  well  may  we  then, 
Though  dwindled  sons  of  little  men, 
Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 
In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance ; 
Or  fcoek  the  moated  castle's  cell, 
Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell, 
While  tyrants  ruled,  and  damsels  wept, 
Thy  Genius,  Chivalry,  hath  slept : 
There  sound  the  harpings  of  the  North, 
Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth, 
On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again, 
In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 
Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and  scarf, 
Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf, 
And  wizard  with  his  wand  of  might, 
And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 
Around  the  Genius  weave  their  spells, 
Pure  Love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells , 
Mystery,  half  veiled  and  half  revealed ; 
And  Honour,  with  his  spotless  shield ; 
Attention,  with  fixed  eye ;  and  Fear, 
That  loves  the  tale  she  shrinks  to  hear ; 
And  gentle  Courtesy ;  and  Faith, 
Unchanged  by  sufferings,  time,  or  death ; 

»  Dryden  had  projected  an  epic  poem,  the  subject  of  which  was 
to  have  been  the  exploits  of  king  Arthur  ;  and  had  be  been  ena- 
bled to  accomplish  luch  a  work,  ft  would  have  been  undoubtedly 
a  glorious  monument  of  English  genius,  as  well  as  record  ot  Ku- 
glish  heroism.  But  the  ingratitude  of  Charles  II.,  and  his  cour- 
tiers, by  whom  he  was  abandoned  to  poverty  and  neglect,  obliged 
him  to  labour  for  his  present  wants,  and  the  scheme  was  unior- 
tunately  abandoned. 


Bay  set   on  NornamE    castled-  steep, 
frnfl   Tcreeds  fair  river, iroad.  and   deep 
An.d  Cheviote    mo"ian.tainB  lone: 


107 


CANTO  1]  MARMION. 

And  Valour,  lion-mettled  lord, 
Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 

Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown, 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  be  won ; 
Ytene's*  oaks — beneath  whose  shade 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made, 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  bold,f 
And  that  Red  King,  J  who,  while  of  old 
Through  Boldrewood  the  chase  he  led, 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renewed  such  legendary  strain ; 
For  thou  hast  sung,  how  He  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis  so  famed  in  hall, 
For  Oriana,  foiled  in  fight 
The  Necromancer's  felon  might; 
And  well  in  modern  verse  hast  wove 
Partenopex's  mystic  love  : 
Hear  then,  attentive  to  my  lay. 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 


CANTO  FIRST. 
CJe  Castle. 

i. 

DAT  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep,§ 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  : 
The  battled  towers,  the  Donjon  Keep,|| 
The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 

*  The  new  forest  in  Hampshire,  anciently  so  called. 

+  Ascapart  was  a  huge  giant,  and  Bevis  of  Southampton  a  gal- 
lant knight,  who  both  fipire  in  the  early  English  romances. 

X  William  Rufus. 

§  The  ruinous  castle  of  Norham,  is  situated  on  the  southern  bank 
of  the  Tweed,  about  six  miles  above  Berwick.  The  extent  of  its 
ruins,  as  well  as  its  historical  importance,  shows  it  to  have  been  a 
place  of  magnificence,  as  well  as  strength. 

II  The  donjon,  was  the  strongest  part  of  a  feudal  castie:  a  hisrh 
•quare  tower,  with  walls  of  tremendous  thickness,  situated  in  the 
centre  of  the  other  buildings,  from  which,  however,  it  was  usually 


108  MARMION.  [CANTO  I. 

The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height : 
Their  armour,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flashed  hack  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

IT. 

St  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  Donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barr'd ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard, 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 

ill. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears ; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Horncliff-hill,  a  plump*  of  spears, 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay ; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd, 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade, 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew ; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 
And  warned  the  Captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew : 

detached.  It  contained  the  great  hall,  and  principal  rooms  of  state 
for  solemn  occasions,  and  also  the  prison  of  the  fortress  ;  from  which 
last  circumstance  we  derive  the  modern  and  restricted  use  of  the 
word  dunyrvn. 

*  This  wor.l  properly  applies  to  a  flight  of  waterfowl,  but  is  ap- 
plied, by  analog,  to  a  body  of  horse. 

There  is  a  Knight  of  the  North  Country, 
Which  leads  a  lusty  plump  of  spears. 

t'lvdden  Field. 


CANTO  I.]  -MABMION.  109 

And  joyfully  that  Knight  did  pall, 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seuescnal. 

IV. 

"  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe, 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow ; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot : 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below." — 
Then  to  the  Castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarred, 
Raised  the  portcullis1  ponderous  guard, 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

And  let  the  draw-bridge  falL 


Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 

Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trod, 

His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle-bow  ; 

Well,  by  his  visage,  you  might  know 

He  was  a  stalworth  knight,  and  keen, 

And  had  in  many  a  battle  been ; 

The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 

A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field ; 

His  eye-brow  dark,  and  eye  of  fire, 

Showed  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire ; 

Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek, 

Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  moustache,  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 

But  more  through  toil  than  age ; 
His  square- turned  joints,  and  strength  of  limb, 
Showed  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim, 
But,  in  close  fight,  a  champion  grim, 
In  camps,  a  leader  sage. 


110  MARMIOIf.  [CAWTO* 

VI. 

Well  was  he  armed  from  head  to  heel, 
In  mail,  and  plate,  of  Milan  steel  ;* 
But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 
Was  all  with  burnish'd  gold  emhoss'd ; 
Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest, 
A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest, 
With  wings  outspread,  and  forward  breast ; 
E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 
Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field : 
The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

"  WHO  CHECKS  AT  ME,  TO  DEATH  IS  BIGHT." 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein ; 
Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane ; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapp'd  with  gold. 

VII. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires, 
Of  noble  name,  and  knightly  sires ; 
They  burned  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim ; 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway, 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love  ditties  passing  rare, 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 

VIII. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 

With  halbard,  bill,  and  battle-axe : 

They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 

And  led  his  sumpter  mules  along, 

And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 

Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 

The  last,  and  trustiest  of  the  four, 

On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore; 

Like  swallow's  tail,  in  shape  and  hue, 

Flutter'd  the  streamer  glossy  blue, 

*  The  artists  of  Milan  were  famous  in  the  middle  agM  for  their 
skill  in  armour. 


Ill 


Wnere,  blazoned  sable,  as  before, 
The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 
Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 
In  hosen  black,  and  jerkins  blue, 
"With  falcons  broider  d  on  each  breast, 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good, 
Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood  ; 
Each  one  a  six-foot  bow  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send  ; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys,  and  array, 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 

IX. 

Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  now, 
How  fairly  armed,  and  ordered  how, 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard, 
With  musquet,  pike,  and  morion, 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  castle-yard  ; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare, 

For  welcome-shot  prepared  : 
Entered  the  train,  and  such  a  clang, 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang, 

Old  Norham  never  heard. 

x. 

The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced, 

The  trumpets  flourished  brave, 
The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced, 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blythe  salute,  in  martial  sort, 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound, 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  crossed  the  court, 

He  scattered  angels  round. 
"  Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion  ! 

Stout  heart,  and  open  hand  ! 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan, 

Thou  flower  of  English  land  P*  — 


112  MARMION.  [CANTO  I. 

XI. 

Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone, 
By  which  you  reach  the  Donjon  gate, 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state, 

They  hailed  Lord  Marmion  : 
They  hailed  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town  ;* 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite, 
Gave  them  a  chain  ot  twelve  marks  weight, 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
"  Now  largesse,  largesse,  Lord  Marmion, ")• 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold ! 
A  hlazon'd  shield,  in  battle  won, 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold." — 

XII. 

They  marshall'd  him  to  the  castle-hall, 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside, 
And  loudly  flourished  the  trumpet-call, 

And  the  heralds  loudly  cried, 
— "  Room,  lordlings,  room  for  Lori  Marmion, 

With  the  crest  and  helm  of  gold ! 
Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold : 
There,  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand ; 
To  him  he  lost  his  ladye-love, 

And  to  the  king  his  laud. 

*  la  earlier  times,  the  family  of  Marmion,  lords  of  Fontenay,  in 
Tiormandy,  was  highly  distinguished.  Kobert  de  Marmion,  Lord 
of  Fomeiiay,  a  distinguished  follower  of  the  Conqueror,  obtained 
a  grant  of  the  castle  and  town  of  Tamworth,  and  also  of  the  manor 
Of  Scrivelby,  in  Lincolnshire,  by  the  honourable  service  of  being 
the  royal  champion,  as  the  ancestors  of  Marmion  had  formerly 
been  to  theDiikes  of  Normandy.  The  family  became  extinct,  and 
the  office  of  royal  champion  was  adjudged  to  Sir  John  Dyinoke, 
to  whom  the  manor  of  Scrivelby  had  descended  by  one  of  the  co- 
heiresses of  Robert  de  M.irmion. 

+  This  was  the  cry  with  which  heralds  and  pursuivants  were 
wont  to  acknowledge  the  bounty  received  from  the  knights.  The 
heralds,  like  the  minstrels,  were  a  rai-e  allowed  to  have  great 
claims  upon  the  liberality  of  the  knights,  of  whose  feats  they  kept 
a  record,  and  proclaimed  tnetu  aloud,  as  in  the  text,  upon  suitable 
occasions. 


CA>"TO  L]  MABMJOK. 

Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  t'air ; 
We  saw  Lord  Marn'Mii  pierce  his  shield, 

And  saw  his  saddie  bare ; 
We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest, 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride ; 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon- Knight ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay, 
For  him  who  conquered  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  !" — 


Then  stepped  to  meet  that  noble  lord, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold, 
Baron  of  Twisell,  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold.  •  ^ 

He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas, 

Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high, 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place— 

They  feasted  full  and  high  : 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

"  How  the  fierce  Thirwulls,  and  Ridleys  all, 
Stout  Wulimondsuridc, 
And  Hard-riding  Dick, 

And  Hughie  of  ffawdon,  and  Will  o"  the  Wall* 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany  Featlierstonhaugh, 
And  taken  his  life  at  the  Deadinans-sliaw™ 

Scantly  Lord  Marmion's  ear  could  brook 
The  harper's  barbarous  lav ; 

Yet  much  he  praised  the  pains  he  took, 

And  well  those  pains  did  pay : 
For  lady's  suit,  and  minstrel's  strain, 
By  knight  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 


"  Now,  good  Lord  MarmioB,"  Heron  says, 

"  Of  your  fair  courtesy. 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space, 

In  this  poor  tower  witu  me. 


113 


114  MARMION.  [CANTO  L 

Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust, 

May  breathe  your  -war-horse  well ; 
Seldom  hath  pass'd  a  week,  but  giust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell : 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed, 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear ; — 
St  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead^ 

That  have  such  neighbours  near. 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space, 

Our  northern  wars  to  learn ; 
I  pray  you  for  your  lady's  grace." 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 


The  Captain  mark'd  his  altered  look, 

And  gave  a  squire  the  sign ; 
A  mighty  wassel  bowl  he  took, 

And  crown' d  it  high  with  wine. 
"  Now  pledge  me  here,  Lord  Marmion : 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair, 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  Page  of  thine, 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine, 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare? 
When  last  in  Raby  towers  we  met, 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed, 
And  often  marked  his  cheeks  were  wet, 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide  : 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand, 
To  burnish  shield,  or  sharpen  brand, 

Or  saddle  battle-steed ; 
But  meeter  seemed  for  lady  fair, 
To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair, 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare, 

The  slender  silk  to  lead : 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold, 

His  bosom — when  he  sigh'd, 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  taoa  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 

A  gentle  paramour?— 


CAHT01]  HAJWOON.  H5 

XVI. 

iiord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest ; 

He  rolled  his  kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppressed, 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply  : 
"  That  hoy  thou  thought'st  so  goodly  fair, 

He  might  not  brook  the  northern  air. 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  would' st  learn, 

I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarn  : 
Enough  of  him. — But,  Heron,  say, 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage, 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage  ?" — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whispered  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 

XVII. 
Unmarked,  at  least  unrecked,  the  taunt, 

Careless  the  Knight  replied, 
"  No  bird,  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt, 

Delights  in  cage  to  bide : 
Norham  is  grim,  and  grated  close, 
Hemmed  in  by  battlement  and  fosse, 

And  many  a  darksome  tower  ; 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright, 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light, 

In  fair  Queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove  ; 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band, 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing, 
She'll  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing."— 

XVIII. 

"  Nay,  if  with  Royal  James's  bride 
The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 
Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 
Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear; 
For,  to  the  Scottish  court  addressed, 
I  journey  at  our  king's  behest, 


116  MARMlOlf.  [CANTO  II. 

And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 
For  me,  and  mine,  a  trusty  guide. 
I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 
James  backed  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince, 
Wai-beck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 
Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 
Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power, 
What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower."* — 

XIX. 

"  For  such  like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow ;+ 
For  here  be  some  have  pricked  as  far 
On  Scottish  ground,  as  to  Dunbar ; 
Have  drunk  the  monks  of  St  Bothan's  ale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale ; 
Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  floods." — J 

XX. 

"  Now,  in  good  sooth,"  Lord  Marmion  cried, 

"  Were  I  in  warlike- wise  to  ride, 

A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack, 

Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back  : 

But,  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 

A  friendly  messenger,  to  know, 

Why  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far, 

Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war, 

The  sight  of  plundering  Border  spears 

Might  justify  suspicious  fears, 

And  deadly  feud,  or  thirst  of  spoil, 

Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil : 

A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide ; 

Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide ; 

*  In  1496,  Perkin  Wai-beck  was  received  honourably  in  Scot- 
land; and  James  IV.,  after  conferring  upon  him  in  marriage  his 
own  relation,  the  Lady  Catharine  Gordon,  made  war  on  England 
in  behalf  of  his  pretensions.  To  retaliate  an  invasion  ot  England, 
Surrey  advanced  into  Berwickshire  at  the  head  of  considerable 
forces,  but  retreated  after  taking  the  inconsiderable  fortress  ot 
Ayton. 

t  The  garrisons  of  the  English  castle*  of  Wark,  Norham,  and 
Berwick,  were  very  troublesome  neighbours  t')  Scotland. 

J  This  is  a  phrase,  by  which  the  Borderers  jocularly  intimated 
the  burning  of  a  house. 


CANTO  VI  HARMION. 

Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest, 
Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least." — 


The  Captain  mused  a  little  space, 

And  passed  his  hand  across  his  face. 

— "  Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  want, 

But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant, 

The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 

Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side. 

Then,  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 

Few  holy  brethren  here  resort ; 

Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 

Since  our  last  siege,  we  have  not  seen : 

The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say, 

Upon  one  stinted  meal  a-day; 

So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle, 

And  prayed  for  our  success  the  while. 

Our  Norham  vicar,  woe  betide, 

Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride. 

The  priest  of  Shoreswood — he  could  rein 

The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train ; 

But  then,  no  spearman  in  the  hall 

Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 

Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man ; 

A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 

A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower, 

He  knows  eich  castle,  town,  and  tower, 

In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 

'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy- Rood. 

But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls, 

Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls, 

Since  on  the  vigil  of  St  Bede, 

In  evil  hour,  he  crossed  the  Tweed, 

To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 

Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife ; 

And  John,  an  enemy  ta  strife, 

Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 

The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore, 

That,  if  again  he  ventures  o'er, 

He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 

Little  he  loves  such  risques,  I  know; 

Yet,  in  your  guard,  perchance  will  go." 


117 


118  MARMIOW.  [CANTO  i 


Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board, 
Carved  to  his  uncle,  and  that  lord, 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word. 
"  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  each  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  Brother  John. 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech, 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach ; 
Full  well  at  tables  can  he  play, 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away,  ' 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
The  needfullest  among  us  all, 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall, 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide, 
And  we  cau  neither  hunt,  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vowed  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude, 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Friar  John,  in  safety,  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill, 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  Waggons  swill : 
Last  night,  to  Norham  there  came  one, 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marmion." — 
"  Nephew,"  quoth  Heron,  "  by  my  fay, 
Well  hast  thou  spoke ;  say  forth  thy  say." 

XXIII. 

"  Here  is  a  holy  Palmer*  come, 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome ; 

One,  that  hath  kissed  the  blessed  tomb, 

And  visited  each  holy  shrine, 

In  Araby  and  Palestine 

On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been, 

Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen ; 

By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod, 

Which  parted  at  the  prophet's  rod ; 

In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 

The  Mount,  where  Israel  heard  the  law, 


CANTO   L]  MAEMION. 

Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin, 
And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 
He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell, 
Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell ; 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod, 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 
Saint  Rosalie  retii-ed  to  God.* 

XXIV. 

"  To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merry, 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cnthhert  of  Durham  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  prayed. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth ; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake, 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guides  o'er  moor  and  dale  ; 
But,  when  our  John  hath  quaffed  his  ale, 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose, 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes." — 


"  Gramercy  T  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
"  Full  loth  were  I,  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me, 
Were  placed  in  fear,  or  jeopardy. 

If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead 
From  hence  to  Holy- Rood, 

Like  his  good  saint,  I'll  pay  his  meed, 

Instead  of  cockle-shell,  or  bead, 

With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers ;  still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill, 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay  : 

»  "  Sante  Rosalia  wa«  of  Palermo,  and  born  of  a  rery  noMe 
family,  and  abhorred  so  much  the  vanities  of  this  world,  that  she 

body  was  found  in  that  clrK  of  a  rock,  on  that  almost  iuaccessib  •* 
lauunlbin,  where  now  her  chapel  i*  built." 


120  MARMION.  [CANTO  I. 

Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend  at  the  least, 
They  bring  to  cheer  the  way." — 

XXTI. 

"  All !  noble  sir,"  young  Selby  said, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

"  This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en  more 

Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 

Still  to  himself  he's  muttering, 

And  shianks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 

Last  night  we  listened  at  his  cell ; 

Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

He  murmured  on  till  morn,  howe'er 

No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 

Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain, 

As  other  voices  spoke  again. 

I  cannot  tell — I  like  it  not — • 

Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote, 

No  conscience  clear,  and  void  of  wrong, 

Can  rest  awake,  and  pray  so  long. 

Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 

Have  marked  ten  aves,  and  two  creeds." — 


"  Let  pass,"  quoth  MarmSon ;  "  by  my  fay, 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way, 
Although  the  great  arch-fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company; 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call 
This  Palmer  to  the  castle-hall." — 
The  summoned  Palmer  came  in  place ; 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face ; 

In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 

With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 
On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought ; 

The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck; 

The  crucifix  around  his  neck 
Was  from  Loretto  brought; 
His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore ; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand, 
Showed  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Laud. 


CA>TO  10  MABMION. 


121 


Whenas  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

Nor  lord,  nor  knight,  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal, 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen ; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait, 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate, 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil ; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while  ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile, 

His  eye  looked  haggard  wild. 
Poor  wretch  !  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  face,  and  sun-burned  hair, 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know — 
For  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace, 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace, 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall, 
But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all. 

XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  then  his  boon  did  ask ; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task, 
Sohewould  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
— "  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way, 
To  fair  Saint  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray,* 

*  St  Regulus,  (Scotticf,  St  Rule)  a  monk  of  Patrae,  in  Aphain, 
warned  by  a  vision,  is  said,  A.D.  370,  to  have  sailed  westward,  until 
he  landed  at  St  Andrew's,  in  Scotland,  where  he  founded  a  chapel 
and  tower.  A  cave,  nearly  fronting  the  ruinous  castle  of  tUa 
Archbishops  of  St  Andrew's,  bears  the  name  of  this  religious 
person. 


MAKMION.  iCANTO  i 

Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay, 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day, 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound; 
Thence  to  Saint  Fillau's  blessed  well, 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel, 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore  : — * 
Saint  Mary  grant,  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring, 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more  !" — 

XXX. 

And  now  the  midnight  draught  of  sleep, 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep, 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest, 
The  Captain  pledged  his  noble  guest, 
The  cup  went  thro  gh  among  the  re.t, 

Who  drained  it  .nerrily ; 
Alone  the  Palmer  passed  it  by, 
Though  Selby  pressed  him  courteouriy. 

This  was  the  sign  the  feast  was  o'er; 

It  hushed  the  merry  v.'assel  roar, 
The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 

Soon  in  the  castle  nought  was  heard, 

But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard, 
Pacing  his  sober  round. 

XXXI. 

With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose: 

And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose ; 

Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done, 

(A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  John,) 

And  knight  and  squire  had  broke  their  fast, 

On  rich  substantial  repast, 

Lord  Marmiou's  bugles  blew  to  horse. 

Then  came  the  stirrup-cup  in  course; 

Between  the  Baron  and  his  host, 

No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost : 

•»  St  Xilliin  was  a  Scottish  »a;nt  of  some  reputation.  Tliere  are, 
in  Perthshire,  several  wells  and  »priiisr»  dedicate 1  to  ht  Killar., 
•which  are  still  places  of  pilgrimage  and  oHermifS,  even  among  the 
Proles  tan  uu 


CANTO  It]  MARMION.  123 

High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Mannion  paid, 
Solemn  excuse  the  Captain  made, 
Till,  tiling  from  the  gate,  had  past 
That  ftobie  train,  their  Lord  the  last. 

Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet-call ; 

Thunderea  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 
And  shook  the  Scottish  shore ; 

Around  the  castle  eddied,  slow, 

Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow, 

And  hid  its  turrets  hoar ; 
Till  they  rolled  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there, 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SECOND. 
To  tine  REV.  JOHN  MAKRIOT,  M.A. 

As/iestiel,  Ettricke  Forest, 
THE  scenes  are  desart  now  and  hare, 
Where  nourished  once  a  forest  fair,* 
When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon  thorn — perchance  whose  prickly  spears 
Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 
While  fell  around  his  green  compeers — 
Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  grey  and  stubborn  now, 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  hough ; 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade, 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made ; 
How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak, 
How  clung  the  rowanf  to  the  rock, 
And  through  the  foliage  showed  his  head, 
With  narrow  leaves,  and  berries  red ; 

»  Ettricke  Forest,  now  a  range  of  mountainous  sheep  walla, 
was  anciently  reserved  for  the  pleasure  of  the  royal  chase.  When 
the  king  hunted  there,  he  often  summoned  the  array  of  the  coun- 
try to  meet  and  assist  his  sport.  These  huntings  had,  of  course,  a 
Solitary  character,  and  attendance  upon  them  was  a  part  of  the 
duty  of  a  va»ial. 

t  Mountain-ash, 


124  MAEMION.  [CANTO  n, 

What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung, 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung, 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook, 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook  ! 

"  Here,  in  my  shade,"  methinks  he'd  say, 
"  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay  : 
The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 
(The  neighbouring  dingle  bears  his  name,) 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl, 
And  stop  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 
The  mountain  boar,  on  battle  set, 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet ; 
While  doe  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green- wood. 
Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower, 
Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power : 
A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round, 
With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound ; 
And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent, 
Guard  every  pass  with  cross-bow  bent ; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 
And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk  ; 
And  foresters,  in  green-wood  trim, 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  gaze-hounds  grim, 
Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's*  bay 
From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey, 
To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 
The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain, 
As  fast  the  gallant  grey-hounds  strain ; 
Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 
Answers  the  harquebuss  below ; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply, 
fo  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters'  cry, 
And  bugles  ringing  liglitsomely." — 


t  rue  tale  or  tne  outlaw  Murray,  wno  new  OIK  i>ewarK  , 
and  Eltricke  Forest  againft  the  king,  may  be  found  ia  tlie  "Eor- 


CAJTTO  TLJ  MARMION.  123 

But  not  more  blythe  that  sylvan  court, 

Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport ; 

Though  small  our  pomp,  and  mean  our  game, 

Our  mirth,  dear  Harriot,  was  the  same. 

Remember' st  thou  my  grey-hounds  true? 

O'er  holt,  or  hill,  there  never  iiew, 

From  slip,  or  leash,  there  never  sprang, 

More  fleet  of  foot,  or  sure  of  fang. 

Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chase, 

Passed  by  the  intermitted  space ; 

For  we  had  fair  resource  in  store, 

In  Classic,  and  in  Gothic  lore  : 

We  marked  each  memorable  scene, 

And  held  poetic  talk  between  ; 

Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along, 

But  had  its  legend,  or  its  song. 

All  silent  now — for  now  are  still 

Thy  bowers,  untenanted  Bowhill ! 

No  longer,  from  thy  mountains  dun, 

The  yeoman  hears  the  well-known  gun, 

And,  while  his  honest  heart  glows  warm, 

At  thought  of  his  paternal  farm, 

Round  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  fills, 

And  drinks,  "  The  Chieftain  of  the  Hills !" 

No  fairy  forms,  in  Yarrow's  bowers, 

Trip  o'er  the  walks,  or  tend  the  flowers, 

Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw, 

By  moonlight,  dance  on  Carterhaugh ; 

No  youthful  barons  left  to  grace, 

The  Forest-Sheriffs  lonely  chase, 

And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone, 

The  majesty  of  Oberon  : 

And  she  is  gone,  whose  lovely  face 

Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace ; 

Though  if  to  Sylphid  Queen  'twere  given, 

To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  heaven, 

She  could  not  glide  along  the  air, 

With  form  more  light,  or  face  more  fair. 

No  more  the  widow's  deafened  ear 

Grows  quick,  that  lady's  step  to  hear : 

der  Minstre'sy."  In  the  Maefarl  me  MS.,  am™,-  other  causes  of 
James  the  Fifth's  charter  to  the  burgh,  is  mentioned,  that  the 
citizen*  assisted  him  to  suppress  this  dangerous  outlaw. 


126  MARMION.  CCA-VTO  II. 

At  noontide  she  expects  her  not, 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot ; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel, 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphans'  meal ; 
Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread, 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they're  fed. 

From  Yair, — which  hills  so  closely  bind, 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 
Though  much  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil, 
Her  long^descended  lord  is  gone, 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys, 
Companions  of  my  mountain  joys, 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth, 
When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is  truth. 
Close  to  my  side,  with  what  delight, 
They  pressed  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight, 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
I  called  his  ramparts  holy  ground  !* 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak ; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
Despite  the  difference  of  our  years, 
Return  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah,  happy  boys  !  such  feelings  pure, 
They  will  not,  cannot  long  endure ; 
Condemned  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide, 
You  may  not  linger  by  the  side ; 
For  Fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore, 
And  Passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar, 
Yet  cherish  the  remembrance  still, 
Of  the  lone  mountain,  and  the  rill ; 
For  trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come, 
When  fiercer  transport  shall  be  dumb, 
And  you  will  think  right  frequently, 
But,  well  I  hope,  without  a  sigh, 
On  the  free  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
Together,  on  the  brown  hill's  bent. 

When,  musing  on  companions  gone, 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  aJone, 

*  There  is,  on  a  high  mountainous  ridge  above  the  farm  of 
Ashestiel,  a  fosse  called  Wallace's  Trench. 


127 


CAKTO  tt]  MARMION. 

Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain, 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain  : 

It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest, 

Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impressed, 

'Tis  silent  amid  worldly  toils, 

And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils ; 

But,  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared, 

Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard, 

Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment, 

'Twist  resignation  and  content. 

Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake, 

By  lone  St  Mary's  silent  lake  ;* 

Thou  know'st  it  well, — nor  fen,  nor  sedge, 

Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge ; 

Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 

At  once  upon  the  level  brink ; 

And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 

Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 

Far  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue, 

Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view; 

Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare, 

Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake  is  there, 

Save  where,  of  land,  yon  slender  line 

Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scattered  pine. 

Yet  even  this  nakedness  has  power, 

And  aiJj  the  feeling  of  the  hour : 

Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy,  _ 

Where  living  thing  concealed  might  lie; 

Nor  point,  retiring,  hides  a  dell, 

Where  swain,  or  woodman  lone,  might  dwell; 

There's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess, 

You  see  that  all  is  loneliness  : 

And  silence  aids — though  these  steep  hills 

Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 

In  summer  tide,  so  soft  they  weep, 

The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep ; 


»  This  beautiful  sheet  of  wa  >-r  fonn»  the  re«ervoir  from  which 
the  Yarrow  lakes  its  source.  iVear  the  lower  extremity  of  the 
lake,  are  the  ruins  of  Drylmpe  Tower,  the  biith-place  of  Mary 
bcott,  daiuhur  -,'  Ph  lip  Scott  of  Dryhope,  and  famous  by  the 
traditional  iiamt  "'.!.•  Flower  of  Yarrow.  She  was  married  to 
Waller  Scc.tl  of  F...  n,  110  less  reuowned  for  his  ciejuedalious, 
tiuu  l.is  briiie  for  hi  >eauty. 


128  MAEMION.  [CANTO  II 

Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude, 
So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Nought  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near ; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low,* 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallowed  soil, 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil,, 
And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid, 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passions'  strife, 
And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  life, 
Here,  have  I  thought,  'twere  sweet  to  dwell, 
And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell, 
Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage, 
Where  Milton  longed  to  spend  his  age. 
'Twere  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day, 
On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay ; 
And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died, 
On  the  broad  lake,  and  mountain's  side, 
To  say,  "  Thus  pleasures  fade  away ; 
Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay, 
And  leave  us  dark,  forlorn,  and  grey ;" — 
Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruined  tower, 
And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  P'lower. 
And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  heard, 
Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared, 
The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings, 
As  up  his  force  the  Tempest  brings, 
'Twere  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rave, 
To  sit  upon  the  Wizard's  grave  ;•)• 
That  wizard  Priest's,  whose  bones  are  thrust 
From  company  of  holy  dust ; 

»  The  chapel  of  Saint  Mary  of  the  Lowes  (de  lacubut)  was  situ- 
ated on  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake,  to  which  it  gives  name.  U 
was  injured  bv  the  clan  of  Scott,  in  a  feud  with  the  Cra.istouns; 
but  continued  to  be  a  pla,-e  of  worship  duriiiz  the  seventeenth 
century  The  vestiges  nf  the  building  can  now  scarcely  be  traced, 
but  the  buri.il  gioun  I  is  still  used  as  a  cemetery. 

t  At  one  corner  of  the  burial  ({round  of  the  demolished  chapel, 
out  without  its  precincts,  is  a  Binall  mound,  called  Binrarn's  cvrte, 

"  °f  *  BeCrOmilltic    "e8t  «"• 


CANTO  n.]  MARMION.  129 

On  •which  no  sun-beam  ever  shines— ^> 

(So  superstition's  creed  divines,) 

Thence  view  the  lake,  with  sullen  roar, 

Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore ; 

And  mark  the  wild  swans  mount  the  gale, 

Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 

And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 

Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave  : 

Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail 

No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail, 

Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire, 

And  light  my  lamp,  and  trim  my  fire : 

There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay, 

Till  the  wild  tale  had  all  its  sway, 

And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek, 

I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak, 

And  thought  the  Wizard  Priest  was  come, 

To  claim  again  his  ancient  home  ! 

And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range, 

To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 

Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  cleared. 

And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  feared. 

But  chief,  'twere  sweet  to  think  such  life, 
(Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife,) 
Something  most  matchless  good,  and  wise, 
A  great  and  grateful  sacrifice ; 
And  deem  each  hour,  to  musing  given, 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Yet  him,  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease, 
Such  peaceful  solitudes  displease  : 
He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 
Amid  the  elemental  war  : 
And  my  black  Palmer's  choice  had  been 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene, 
lake  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Lochskene,* 
There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore ; 
Down  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar; 
O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven, 
Dark  mists  infect  the  summer  heaven ; 

*  A  mountain  lake,  of  considerable  size,  at  the  head  of  the  Mof- 
tat-  water. 

F2 


130 


MAIWIOX  [CAN10  II. 


Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake, 
Away  its  hurrying  waters  break, 
Faster  and  whiter  dash  and  curl, 
Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 
Rises  the  fog-smoke  white  as'snow, 
Thunders  the  viewless  streair  below, 
Diving,  as  if  condemned  to  lave 
Some  demon's  subterranean  cave, 
Who,  prisoned  by  enchanter's  spell, 
Shakes  the  dark  rock  with  groan  and  yell. 
And  well  that  Palmer's  form  and  mien 
Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene, 
Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den, 
Where,  deep  deep  down,  and  far  within, 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn ; 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave, 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail, 
Drives  down  the  pass  of  Moffatdale. 

Harriot,  thy  harp,  on  Isis  strung, 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rung  : 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  know 
Of  this  mysterious  Man  of  Woe. 


CANTO  SECOND. 
£{)e  donbenf. 


THE  breeze,  which  swept  away  the  smoke, 

Round  Norham  Castle  rolled  ; 
When  all  the  load  artillery  spoke. 
With  lightning-flash,  and  thunder-stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  Hold. 
It  curled  not  Tweed  alone,  that  breeze ; 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas, 

It  freshly  blew,  and  strong, 
Where,  from  high  Whitby's  cloistered  pile, 
Bound  to  Saint  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle. 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 


CA.VTO  1I.J  MAKMION.  131 

Upon  the  gale  she  stooped  her  side, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

As  she  were  danciug  home ; 
The  merry  seamen  laui-hed,  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joyed  they  in  their  honoured  freight ; 
For,  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state,* 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed. 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 

II. 

'Twas  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids, 
Like  birds  escaped  to  green-wood  shades, 

Their  first  night  from  the  cage, 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too, 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new, 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view, 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite ; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale, 

And  would  for  terror  pray; 
Then  shrieked,  because  the  sea-dog,  nigh, 
His  round  black  head,  and  sparkling  eye, 

Reared  o'er  the  foaming  spray; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil, 
Disordered  by  the  summer  gale, 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy ; 
Perchance,  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-turned  arm  and  slender  waist. 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there, 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share, — 
The  Abbess,  and  the  Novice  Clare. 

•  The  Abbey  of  Whitby  contained  both  monks  and  nans  of 
me  Benedictine  order;  but,  contrary  to  what  was  usu*l  m  such 
establishments,  the  abbess  was  superior  to  the  abbot,  umuauve, 
was  called  Holy  Island,  from  the  sanctity  of  its  ancient  monastery, 
uid  from  its  li'ivinir  been  the  epi-copal  seat  of  the  see  of  Durham 
d.irir"  the  early  atres  of  British  Chrsitianity.  St  Cuthbert,  who 
was  Srxth  bishop  of  Durham,  bestoxved  the  name  of  his  "patri- 
mony" upon  the  extensive  property  of  the  see.  Lindisfarne  is  not 
nroperly  an  island,  but  rather,  a  semi-isle ;  for  although  surround- 
3u  bv  the  sea  at  full  tide,  the  ebb  leaves  the  sands  dry  between  it 
and  the  off  *ite  coast  of  Northumberland,  from  wbuch  it  a  about 
two  miles  distant. 


132  MARMION. 

III. 

The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood, 
But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood, 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look, 
Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh, 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye ; 
Love,  to  her  ear,  was  but  a  name, 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall : 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach, 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach  ; 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim, 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower, 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower ; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint, 
And  gave  the  relique-shrine  of  cost, 
With  ivory  and  gems  embost. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest, 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 

IV. 

Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reformed  on  Benedictine  school ; 
Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare ; 
Vigils,  and  penitence  austere, 
Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth, 
But  gentle  was  the  dame  in  sooth ; 
Though  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey, 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell, 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame ; 
Summoned  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came, 
There,  with  Saint  (Juttibert's  Abbot  old, 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict. 


ICANTOtt 


CANTO  110  MARMION. 

On  two  apostates  from  the  faith, 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

v. 

Nought  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  -was  young  and  fair ; 
As  yet  a  novice  unprofessed, 
Lovely,  and  gentle,  but  distressed. 
She  was  betrothed  to  one  now  dead, 
Or  worse,  who  had  dishonoured  fled. 
Her  kinsmen  bade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one,  who  loved  her  For  her  land : 
Herself  almost  heart-broken  now, 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow, 
And  shroud,  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom, 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  withered  bloom. 

YI. 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 
And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below ; 
Nay  seemed,  so  fixed  her  look  and  eye, 
To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 
She  saw  them  not — 'twas  seeming  all — 
Far  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall, — 
A  sun-scorched  desart,  waste  and  bare, 
Nor  wave,  nor  breezes,  murmured  there  ; 
There  saw  she,  where  some  careless  hand 
O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heaped  the  sand, 
To  hide  it  till  the  jackalls  come, 
To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb. — 
See  what  a  woeful  look  was  given, 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven ! 

VII. 

Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distressed — 

These  charms  might  tame  the  fiercest  breast : 

Harpers  have  sung,  and  poets  told, 

That  he,  in  fury  uncontrolled, 

The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood. 

Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good, 

Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 

But  passions  in  the  human  frame 

Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame : 


133 


134  MAHMION.  [CANTO  H. 

And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue, 

With  sordid  avarice  in  league, 

Had  practised,  with  their  bowl  and  knife, 

Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 

This  crime  was  charged  'gainst  those  who  lay 

Prisoned  in  Cuthbert's  islei  gray. 

VIII. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 

Of  mountainous  Northumberland ; 

Towns,  towers,  and  halls,  successive  rise, 

And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 

Monk-Wearmouth  soon  behind  them  lay, 

And  Tynemouth's  priory  and  bay ; 

They  marked,  amid  her  trees,  the  hall 

Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval ; 

They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 

Rush  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods ; 

They  past  the  tower  of  Widderington, 

Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son ; 

At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell, 

To  the  good  Saint  who  owned  the  cell ; 

Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 

And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name ; 

And  next,  they  crossed  themselves,  to  hear 

The  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near, 

Where,  boiling  through  the  rocks,  they  roar 

On  Dunstanborough's  caverned  shore  ; 

Thy  tower;  proud  Bamborough,  marked  they  here, 

King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square, 

From  its  tall  rock  look  grimly  down, 

And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown ; 

Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away, 

And  reached  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 

IX. 

The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain, 
And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain  : 
For  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  its  stile 
Varies  from  continent  to  isle ; 
Dry-shod,  o'er  sands,  twice  eiery  day, 
The  pilgrims  to  tba  shrine  find  way ; 


CAJTTO  IL]  MARM10N. 

Twice  every  day,  the  waves  efface 
Of  staves  and  saudaied  feet  the  trace. 
As  to  the  port  the  galley  flew, 
Higher  and  higher  :ose  to  view 
The  Castle,  with  its;  battled  walls, 
The  ancient  monastery's  halls, 
A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark -red  pile, 
Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 


In  Saxon  strength  that  Abbey  frowned, 
With  massive  arches  broad  and  r  -und, 

That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row 

On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low, 
Built  ere  the  art  was  known, 

By  pointed  risle,  and  shafted  stalk, 

The  arcades  of  an  alley'd  walk 

To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls,  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  poured  Lis  impious  rage  in  vain ; 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these, 
Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas, 
Scourged  by  the  wind's  eternal  sway, 
Open  to  rovers  herce  as  they, 
"W  hich  could  twelve  hundred  years  withstand 
Winds,  v.-aves,  and  northern  pirates'  hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Rebuilded  in  a  later  stile, 
Showed  where  the  spoiler's  hand  had  been ; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keea 
Had  worn  the  pillar's  curving  quaint, 
And  mouldered  in  his  niche  the  saint, 
And  rounded,  with  consuming  power, 
The  pointed  angles  of  each  tower  : 
Yet  still  entire  the  Abbey  stood, 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 

XI. 

Soon  as  they  neared  his  turrets  strong, 
The  maideus  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song, 
And  \uth  the  sea- wave  and  the  wind, 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  combined, 
And  made  harmonious  close ; 


135 


136  MARMION.  [CANTO  IT. 

Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore, 

Half-drowned  amid  the  breakers'  roar. 

According  chorus  rose : 
Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle, 
The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file, 

From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim ; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  reliques  there, 
To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare ; 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  oa  air, 

They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders,  in  joyous  mood, 
Rushed  emulously  through  the  flood, 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land ; 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood, 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood, 

And  blessed  them  with  her  hand. 

XII. 

Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 
Suppose  the  Convent  banquet  made ; 

All  through  the  holy  dome, 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery, 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry, 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallowed  eye, 

The  stranger  sisters  roam  : 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew, 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew, 
For  there,  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  strayed  and  gazed  their  fill, 

They  closed  around  the  tire ; 
And  all,  in  turn,  essayed  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 
A  holy  maid ;  for,  be  it  known, 
That  their  saint's  honour  is  their  own. 

XIII. 

Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told, 
How  to  their  house  three  barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do ; 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame. 
And  monks  cry  "  Fye  upon  your  name  ! 
In  wrath,  for  loss  ot  sylvan  game, 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew." 


CANTO  IT.]  MARMION.  137 

"  This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year, 
While  labouring  on  our  harbour-pier, 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear." 
They  told,  how  in  their  convent  cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell, 

The  lovely  Edelfled  ;* 
And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone,^ 

When  holy  Hilda  prayed ; 
Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound, 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 
They  told,  how  sea-fowls'  pinions  fail,J 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail, 
And,  sinking  down,  with  flutterings  faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 

XIV. 

Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail, 
To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale ; 
His  body's  resting-place,  of  old, 
How  oft  their  patron  changed,  they  told  ;§ 

*  She  was  the  daughter  of  King  Osway,  who,  in  gratitude  to 
heaven  f  ,r  the  <reat  "ictory  which  he  won  in  65f).  against  Penda, 
the  pa^an  kin?  of  Mercia.  dedicated  Edelfleda,  then  but  a  year 
lid  ito  the  8ervW  of  God  in  the  monastery  of  Whitby,  of  which 
6t  Hilda  was  then  abbess.  She  afterwards  adorned  the  place  of 
ner  education  with  ereat  magnificence. 

t  The  reliques  of  the  makes  which  infested  the  precincts  of  the 
convent,  and  were,  at  the  abbess's  prayer,  not  only  beheaded,  but 
petrified,  are  still  found  about  the  rocks,  and  are  termed  fcy  fossil- 

"*»  MrChaVhor.,  in  his  History  of  Whitby,  points  out  the  true 
ortein  of  the  fable,  from  the  number  of  sea-Riills,  that,  when  flying 
from  a  storm,  often  aliaht  near  Whitby ;  and  from  the  woodcocks, 
and  other  birds  of  passage,  which  do  the  same  upon  their  arrival  on 

Shs1t  "cuthbe^died  in  the  Farne  islands,  and  his  body  was 
brought  to  I.mdisfarne,  where  it  remained  until  a  descent  < 
Danel  about  763.  when  the  monks  fled  to  Scotland,  with  his  re 
liques:  they  paraded  him  through  Scotland  for  several  years,  and 
came  as  far  west  as  Whithorn,  in  Galloway,  whence  they  at- 
tempted to  sail  for  Ireland,  but  were  driven  back  by  temptats. 
He  at  lenzth  made  a  halt  at  Norham ;  thence  he  went  to  Melrose, 
where  he  remained  stationary  for  a  short  time,  and  then  raiisej 
oimself  to  be  launched  upon  the  Tweed  in  a  stone  coffin,  which 
«nded  him  at  Tillmouth,  m  ^nrthumberlaud.  r  rom  T.,imo,ith, 
Cuthbfrt  wandered  into  Yorkshire;  and  at  lensrth  made  a  Ion? 
itayat  Chester-1e-stre»l,  to  which  the  bishop's  see  was  transferred. 
At  Icn-fth,  the  Danes  continuing  to  infest  the  country,  the  monks 
remnved  to  Rippoii  f  .r  a  season  ;  and  it  was  in  return  from  thence 
to  Che«ter-le-st  reel,  that,  passing  through  a  forest  called  Dnnholme, 
the  Snint  and  his  carriage  became  immoveable  at  a  place  named 
Ward  law,  or  Wardiiaw. 


138  MARMION.  tCANTO  H. 

How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burned  their  pile, 
The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle ; 
O'er  northern  mountain,  marsh,  and  moor, 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they  bore. 
They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose ; 

But  though,  alive,  he  loved  it  well, 
Not  there  his  reliques  might  repose  ; 

For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell ! 
In  his  stone-coffin  forth  he  rides, 
(A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides) 
Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides, 
Downward  to  Tillmouth  cell. 
Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there, 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair ; 
Chester-le-Street,  and  Rippon,  saw 
His  holy  corpse,  ere  Wardilaw 

Hailed  him  with  joy  and  fear ; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 
He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last, 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear  : 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  reliques  are  in  secret  laid ; 

But  none  may  know  the  place, 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three, 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy, 
Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 

xv. 

Who  may  his  miracles  declare  ! 
Even  Scotland's  dauntless  king,  and  heir, 

(Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And  Lodon's  knights,  all  sheathed  in  mail, 
And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale,) 

Before  his  standard  fled.* 
'Twas  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 

»  'When  David  L,  with  his  son  Henry  invaded  Northumberland 
in  1136,  the  English  host  marched  against  them  under  the  holy 
banner  of  St  Cuthbert ;  to  the  efficacy  of  which  was  imputed  the 
great  victory  which  they  obtained  at  Northallerton, 


CANTO  II.1  MAKM10N.  139 

And  turned  the  conqueror  back  again,* 
When,  with  his  N  ormaa  bowyer  Band, 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 

XVI. 

But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn, 
If,  on  a  rock  by  Lindisfarn, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name :+ 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told, 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound ; 
A  deadened  clang, — a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm, 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame, 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarn  disclaim. 


While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe, 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone  that  vault, 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 

Old  Colwulf  built  it, J  for  his  fault, 

In  penitence  to  dwell, 
When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 

*  The  Saint  we  are  told  appeared  in  a  vision  to  Alfred,  when 
lurkine  in  the  marshes  of  Glastonbury,  and  promised  him  assist- 
ance and  victory  over  his  heathen  enemies.  As  to  William  the  Con  • 
queror,  having  intimated  an  indiscreet  curiosity  to  view  the  Saint's 
body,  he  was,  while  in  the  act  of  commanding  the  shrine  to  be 
opened,  seiied  with  heat,  sickness,  and  such  a  panic  terror,  that 
he  fled  and  never  drew  his  bridle  till  he  got  to  the  river  Tees. 

t  Cuthbert  since  his  death,  has  acquired  the  reputation  of  forging 
those  Entrochi  which  are  found  among  the  rocks  of  Holy  Island, 
and  pass  there  by  the  name  of  St  Cuthbert's  Beads.  While  at  thi» 
task,  he  is  supposed  to  sit  during  the  night  upon  a  certain  rock,  and 
use  another  as  his  anvil. 

J  Ceolwolf,  or  Colwulf,  King  of  Northumberland,  flourished  in 
the  eighth  century.  He  abdicated  the  throne  about 738,  and  retired 
to  Holy  Island,  where  he  died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity.  These 
penitential-  vaults  served  as  places  of  meeting  for  the  chapter,  when 
measures  ot  uncommon  severity  were  to  be  adopted.  But  their 
most  frequent  use,  lu  implied  by  the  name,  was  as  places  for  per- 
forming penances,  or  undergoing  punishment. 


140  MARMION.  [CANTO  It 

This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense. 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 
Was,  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial,  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin, 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent, 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 

XVIII. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go, 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay ;  and  still  more  few 
Were  those,  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blind-fold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side- walls  sprung; 
The  grave-stones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor  ; 
The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,*  in  an  iron  chain, 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
With  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive, 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

XIX. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three : 

*  Antique  chandelier. 


CANTO    H.I  MARMIOX.  141 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 
The  statutes  of  whose  oraer  strict 

Oil  iron  table  lay; 

In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown, 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray  : 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's  there, 
Sate  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil : 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress,* 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale : 
And  he,  that  Ancient  Man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone, 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern, — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style ; 
For  sanctity  called,  through  the  isle, 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarn. 

XX. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 

Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  Prioress'  command, 
A  Monk  undid  the  silken  band, 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread, 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 

«  A»  in  the  cat    of  Whitby  and  of  Holy  Island,  the  introduction 
of  nuns  at  Tyoeuioulo,  in  toe  reign  of  Henry  VIIL,  is  au  ana- 


142  MARMION.  [CANTO  It 

Constance  de  Beverly  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  numbered  with  the  dead, 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 


When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view, 

(Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear, 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair,) 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy ; 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale, 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted, 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  life,  was  there ; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 


Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  controul, 
Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul, 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed ; 
One,  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  tempter  ever  needs, 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds  ; 
For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt ; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base, 
The  fear  of  death,— alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 
His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash ; 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 


CANTO  HO  MARMIO*. 

XXIII. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak ! 
For  there  were  seen,  in  that  dark  wall, 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall. 
Who  enters  at  such  griesly  door, 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  tind  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid, 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread : 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless ; 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch : 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid.* 

XXIT. 

These  executioners  were  chose, 
As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 
And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired ; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 

Strove,  by  deep  penance,  to  efface 
Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain. ; 

For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will,    _    ' 

Such  men  the  church  selected  still, 

As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill, 

Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain, 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there, 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

XXV. 

And  now  that  blind  old  Abbot  rose, 
To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom, 

»  It  U  well  known,  that  tlie  religious  who  broke  their  TOWS  of 
chastity,  were  subjected  to  the  same  penalty  as  the  Roman  res  tala 
in  a  siriiiUr  case.  V  sriwll  niche,  sufficient  to  enclose  their  bodies, 
was  made  in  ths  missive  wall  of  the  convent ;  a  slender  pittance 
of  food  and  water  was  deoo«ited  in  it,  and  the  awful  words,  \  AD« 
i»  PACXM,  were  the  signal  for  immuring  the  criminal. 


144  MARMION.  [CANTO  U. 

On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose, 

Alive,  within  the  tomb  ; 
But  stopped,  because  that  woeful  maid, 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed. 
Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain ; 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain ; 
Nought  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 
From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip  : 

'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 

You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill— 
'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls ; 

For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 

Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 

A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

XXVI. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  colour  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak, 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 
Still  as  she  spoke,  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy, 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

XXVII. 

"  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace ; 

Well  know  I,  for  one  minute's  space  -\ 

Successless  might  I  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain, 
To  cleanse  my  sins,  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too. — 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil, 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride. 
A  horse- boy  in  his  train  to  ride  j 


CANTO  IL]  MAEMION. 

And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave.— 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more.— 
"Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told ; 

But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 
Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 
Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me  ! 


"  The  king  approved  his  favourite's  aim ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

Whose  faith  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge — and  on  they  came, 
In  mortal  lists  to  fight 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 
They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry, 
Shout,  '  Marmion,  Marmion,  to  the  sky ! 

De  Wilton  to  the  block  f 
Say  ye,  who  preach  heaven  shall  decide, 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  heaven's  justice  here  ? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death, 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear. 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell." — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast, 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

"  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  staid; 
To  Whitby's  convent  tted  the  maid, 
The  hated  match  to  shun. 


146  MARMION.  [CANTO  II. 

4  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ?'  King  Henry  cried, 
'  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remained — the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land  : 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  plaim'd 

For  Clara  and  for  me  : 
This  caitiff  Monk,  for  gold,  did  swear, 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

XXX. 

"  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul,  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed, 
This  packet,  to  the  king  conveyed, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  death  who  comes  at  last. 


"  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take, 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing ; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea- winds'  sweep  ; 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones, 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 


CANTO  IL]  MARMION. 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be."— 


Fixed  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air ; 

Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair ; 

The  locks,  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade, 

Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head ; 

Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  iaore  high; 

Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 

Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 

Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate ; 

With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 

Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 

And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm ; 

The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread ; 

No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 

Till  thus  the  Abbot's  doom  was  given, 

Kaising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven : — 

"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease ; 

Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  !" — 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three ; 

Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 

The  butcher- work  that  there  befell, 

When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 

XXXIII. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day ; 
But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air, 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan  : 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,) 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on. 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone, 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  'welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 


148 


fCANTO  HI. 


Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind ; 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  THIRD. 

To  WILLIAM  ERSKINE,  Esq. 

Ashestiel,  Eltrioke  Forest, 
LIKE  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass, 
With  varying  shadow,  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate,  on  field  and  furrow, 
Life's  chequered  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow; 
Like  streamlet  of  the  mountain  north, 
Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth, 
Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train, 
And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain ; 
Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 
Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away, 
And  ever  swells  again  as  fast, 
When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past ; 
Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 
Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 
Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 
Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race ; 
Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar, 
Weaving  its  maze  irregular ; 
And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 
Heaves  its  wild  sigh  through  Autumn  trees. 
Then  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale, 
Flow  on,  flow  uiiconlineu,  my  tale. 


CANTO  III.]  MARMION.  149 

Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell, 
I  love  the  licence  all  too  well, 
In  sound  now  lowly,  and  now  strong,  : 

To  raise  the  desultory  song  ? —  ; 

Oft,  when  mid  such  capricious  chime, 
Some  transient  fit  of  loftier  rhyme, 
To  thy  kind  judgment  seemed  excuse 
For  many  an  error  of  the  muse  ;  „  • 

Oft  hast  thou  said,  "  If  still  mis-spent, 
Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent, 
Go,  and  to  tame  thy  wandering  course, 
Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source ; 
Approach  those  masters,  o'er  whose  tomb 
Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom  : 
Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard, 
Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard ; 
From  them,  and  from  the  paths  they  show'd, 
Choose  honoured  guide  and  practised  road ; 
Nor  ramble  on  through  brake  and  maze, 
With  harpers  rude  of  barbarous  days. 

"  Or  deem'st  thou  not  our  later  time 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rhyme  ? 
Hast  thou  no  elegiac  verse 
For  Brunswick's  venerable  hearse  ? 
What !  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sigh, 
When  valour  bleeds  for  liberty  ? — 
Oh,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  with  unrivalled  light  sublime, — 
Though  martial  Austria,  and  though  all 
The  might  of  Russia,  and  the  Gaul, 
Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes — • 
The  star  of  Brandenburgh  arose, 
Thou  could'st  not  live  to  see  her  beam 
For  ever  quenched  in  Jena's  stream. 
Lamented  chief ! — it  was  not  given, 
To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  heaven, 
And  crush  that  dragon  in  his  birth, 
Predestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 
Lamented  chief ! — not  thine  the  power, 
To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour, 
When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field, 
And  snatched  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield : 


150  MARMION.  [CANTO  m. 

Valour  and  skill  'twas  thine  to  try, 
And,  tried  in  vain,  'twas  thine  to  die. 
Ill  had  it  seemed  thy  silver  hair 
The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share, 
For  princedoms  reft,  and  scutcheons  riven, 
And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given ; 
Thy  land's,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel, 
And  witness  woes  thou  could' st  not  heal ! 
On  thee  relenting  heaven  bestows 
For  honoured  life  an  honoured  close ; 
And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change, 
The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge, 
When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake, 
Some  new  Arminius  shall  awake, 
Her  champion,  ere  he  strike,  shall  come 
To  whet  his  sword  on  BRUNSWICK'S  tomb. 

"  Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  teach, 
Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach  : 
Alike  to  him  the  sea,  the  shore, 
The  brand,  the  bridle,  or  the  oar ; 
Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 
Its  votaries  to  the  shattered  walls, 
Which  the  grim  Turk  besmeared  with  tflood, 
Against  the  Invincible  made  good  ; 
Or  that,  whose  thundering  voice  could  wake 
The  silence  of  the  polar  lake, 
When  stubborn  Russ,  and  metal'd  Swede, 
On  the  warped  wave  their  death-game  played  ; 
Or  that,  where  vengeance  and  affright 
Howl'd  round  the  father  of  the  fight, 
Who  snatched  on  Alexandria's  sand 
The  conqueror's  wreath  with  dying  hand. 

"  Or,  if  to  touch  such  chord  be  thine, 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line, 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  wild  harp  which  silent  hung, 
By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore, 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  rolled  o'er ; 
When  she,  the  bold  Enchantress,  came, 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame  ! 
From  the  pale  willow  snatched  the  treasure, 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure, 


CANTO  IIL]  MARMION. 

Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Monfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain,  _    ^ 

Deemed  their  own  Shakspeare  lived  again.  — 

Thy  friendship  thus  thy  judgment  wronging, 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers, 
Would'st  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say,  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weighed 
That  secret  power  by  all  obeyed, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind, 
Its  source  concealed  or  undefined ; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth, 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers, 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours ; 
Or  whether  fitlier  termed  the  sway 
Of  habit,  formed  in  early  day  ? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confessed 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain, 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why, 
Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky, 
He  seeks  not  eager  to  inhale 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  gale, 
Content  to  rear  his  whitened  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal  ? 
He'll  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose'sluggish  herds  before  him  wind, 
Whose  tattered  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak ; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes, 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows : 
Ask  if  it  would  content  him  well, 
At  ease  in  these  gay  plains  to  dwell, 
Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene, 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between? 


152  MARMION.  [CANTO  lit 

No !  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range, 
Nor  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Bennevis  grey  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child, 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 
Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time ; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day, 
Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 
Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 
Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 
Though  no  broad  river  swept  along, 
To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song ; 
Though  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 
To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale ; 
Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 
Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed ; 
Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 
By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 
It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild, 
Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled ; 
But  ever  and  anon  between 
Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green ; 
And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 
Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 
And  honey-suckle  loved  to  crawl 
Up  the  low  crag  and  mined  wall ; 
I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 
The  sun  in  all  his  round  surveyed ; 
And  still  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 
The  mightiest  work  of  human  power ; 
And  marvelled,  as  the  aged  hind 
With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind, 
Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force, 
Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their  hone 
Their  southern  rapine  to  renew, 
Far  in  the  distant  Cheviots  blue, 
And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 
With  revel,  wassel-rout,  and  brawl. — 
Methought  that  still  with  tramp  and  clang 
The  gate- way's  broken  arches  rang ; 


CANTO  nt]  MABMIOW.  153 

Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 

Glared  through  the  windows'  rusty  bars. 

And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth, 

Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 

Of  lovers'  sleights,  of  ladies'  charms, 

Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms ; 

Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old 

By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold ; 

Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 

When,  pouring  from  their  Highland  height, 

The  Scottish  clans,  in  headlong  sway, 

Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 

While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor, 

Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er, 

Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid, 

The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed ; 

And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 

And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before. 

Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace, 
Anew,  each  kind  familiar  face, 
That  brightened  at  our  evening  fire ; 
From  the  thatched  mansion's  grey-haired  Sire, 
Wise  without  learning,  plain  and  good, 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood  ; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen, 
Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbours  sought, 
Content  with  equity  unbought ; 
To  him  the  venerable  Priest, 
Our  frequent  and  familiar  guest, 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paiut 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint ; 
Alas !  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke : 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-will'd  imp,  a  grandame's  child ; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  carest. 

From  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conned  task  ? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay — on  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heatnbell  flourish  still ; 


1 54  MARMION. 


CCANTO  m. 


Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine, 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  leave  untrimmed  the  eglantine  : 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay —  since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigour  to  my  lays, 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flattened  thought,  or  cumbrous  line, 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend, 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  streams,  as  gale, 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrained,  my  tale  ! ' 


CANTO  THIRD. 

CTje  Hostel,  or  Inn. 
i. 

THE  livelong  day  Lord  Mannion  rode : 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  showed ; 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road, 
For  the  Merse  forayers  were  abroad, 
Who,  tired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey^ 
Had  scarcely  failed  to  bar  their  way. 
Oft  on  the  trampling  band,  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff,  the  deer  looked  down ; 
On.  wine  of  jet,  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath,  the  black-cock  rose ; 
Sprung  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe, 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow ; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began, 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan, 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  passed  before 
They  gained  the  height  of  Lammermoor 
Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way 
Before  them,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 

II. 

No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower, 
To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 


CA:*TO  m?  MA.UMION.  155 

To  Scotland's  camp  the  Lord  was  gone ; 
His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone, 
Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 
So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 

On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced, 

Before  a  porch,  whose  front  was  graced 

With  hush  and  flaggon  trimly  placed, 
Lord  Mannion  drew  his  rein  : 

The  village  inn*  seemed  large,  though  rude 

Its  cheerful  fire  and  hearty  food 

Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down  from  their  seats  the  horsemen  sprung, 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung ; 
They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamour  fills  the  hall, 
Weighing  the  labour  with  the  cost, 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 

ill. 

Soon  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze, 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze ; 
Might  see,  where,  in  dark  nook  aloof, 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer ; 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar, 

And  savoury  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide; 
Above,  around  it,  and  beside, 

Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand : 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day, 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray, 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state, 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 

*  If  the  Scottish  inns  were  not  good,  it  was  not  for  want  of  en- 
couragement from  the  legislature ;  who,  so  early  as  the  reign  of 
James  L,  not  only  enacted,  that  in  all  boroughs  and  fairs  there  be 
hostellaries,  having  stables  and  chambers,  and  provision  for  man 
and  horse,  but,  by  another  statute,  ordained,  that  no  man,  travel- 
ling on  horse  or  foot,  should  presume  to  lodge  any  where  except 
^n  these  hostellaries ;  »nd  that  no  person,  save  innkeepers,  should 
receive  such  travellers,  under  the  penalty  of  forty  shillings,  for 
exercising  such  hospitality. 


150  MARMIOX  [CANTO  111 

And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth, 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth, 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside, 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied, 

IT. 

Their's  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
And  laughter  their's  at  little  jest ; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deigned  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made 
For  though,  with  men  of  high  degree, 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he, 
Yet,  trained  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey, 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May ; 
With  open  hand,  and  brow  as  free, 
Lover  of  wine,  and  minstrelsy ; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower, 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower  :— 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  tires  to  Zembla's  frost. 


Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff, 

Right  opposite  the  Palmer  stood ; 
His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 

Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 
Still  fixed  on  Marmion  was  his  look, 
Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook, 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell ; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 

The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 

VI. 

By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud ; 
For  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard, 
Their  glee  and  game  declined. 


CANTO  EL]  MABJUOX. 

All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke,  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear, 

Thus  whispered  forth  his  mind  :— 
"  Saint  Mary  !  saw'st  thou  e'er  such  sight  ? 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  fire-brand's  fickle  light 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  Lord  he  sets  his  eye ; 
For  his  best  palfrey,  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl." — 

VII. 

But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 

Which  thus  had  quelled  their  hearts,  who  saw 

The  ever-varying  fire-light  show 

That  figure  stern  and  face  of  woe, 

Now  called  upon  a  squire  : — 
"  Fitz- Eustace,  know'st  thou  not  some  lay. 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away  ? 

\V  e  slumber  by  the  fire." — 

Till. 

"  So  please  you,"  thus  the  youth  rejoined, 
"  Our  choicest  minstrel's  left  behind. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustomed  Constant's  strains  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike, 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike ; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine,  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  spring-tide  bush ; 
No  nightingale  her  love-lorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Woe  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be, 
Detains  from  us  his  melody. 
Lavished  on  rocks,  and  billows  stern, 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarn. 
Now  must  I  venture  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favourite  roundelay." — 


A  mellow  voice  Fitz- Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  wag  wild  and  sad ; 


157 


158  MARM10N. 

Such  have  I  heard,  in  Scottish  land, 
Else  from  the  busy  harvest  band, 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer, 
On  lowland  plains,  the  ripened  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong, 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song : 
Oft  have  I  listened,  and  stood  still, 
As  it  came  softened  up  the  hill, 
And  deemed  it  the  lament  of  men 
Who  languished  for  their  native  glen ; 
And  thought,  how  sad  would  be  such  sound, 
On  Susquehana's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumbered  brake, 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 
Where  heart-sick  exiles,  in  the  strain, 
Recalled  fair  Scotland's  hills  again  1 


SONG. 
Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  for  ever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high, 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die, 

Under  the  willow. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loroy  &c.     Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day,. 

Cool  streams  are  laving  ; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving  ; 
There,  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake,, 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.    Never.  O  never. 


[CANTO  in. 


CANTO  m.]  MARMTOJI. 

XI. 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  hy  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle, 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.    There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap, 

O'er  the  false-hearted ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it, — 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.    Never,  O  never. 


It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound ; 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad ;  but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear, 
And  plained  as  if  disgrace  and  ill, 
And  shameful  death,  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 

Between  it  and  the  band, 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space. 

Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  I  scan  not ;  but  I  ween, 
That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen, 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 
That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall, 
Would  scarce  have  wished  to  be  their  prey, 
For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 


159 


160 


[CANTO  lit 


High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  R«morse  ! 
Fear  for  their  scourge,  mean  villains  have, 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave  ; 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel ; 
Even  while  they  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head, 
And,  smiling,  to  Fitz-Eustace  said  : — 
"  Is  it  not  strange,  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seemed  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul  ? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend?" 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke, 
(The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,) 

"The  death  of  a  dear  friend."* 


Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity ; 
Marmion,  whose  soul  could  scantly  brook, 
Even  from  his  king,  a  haughty  look ; 
Whose  accent  of  command  controlled, 
In  camps  the  boldest  of  the  bold — 
Thought,  look,  and  utterance,  failed  him  now, 
Fallen  was  his  glance,  and  flushed  his  brow  : 

For  either  in  the  tone, 
Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook, 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps,  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave  : 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confounds  the  wise, 
And  proudest  princes  vail  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 

»  Among  other  omens  amone  the  Scottish  peasantry,  is  what  is 
called  the  sdead-bell  f  that  tint-ling  in  .;ie  ears  which  the  country 
people  regard  ai  the  secret  intelligence  of  tome  friend's  decease. 


CANTO  III. J  MABMION. 

XV. 

Well  might  he  falter  !-  by  his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beveiley  betrayed; 
Not  that  he  augur' d  of  the  doom, 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  ton.b; 
But  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid , 
And  wroth,  because,  in  wild  despair, 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare ; 
Its  fugitive  the  church  he  gave, 
Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave ; 
And  deemed  restraint  in  convent  strange, 
Would  hide  her  wrongs,  and  her  revenge. 
Himself,  proud  Henry's  favourite  peer, 
Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear, 
Secure  his  pardon  he  might  hold, 
For  some  slight  roulct  of  penance-gold. 
Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way, 
When  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  jrey 
His  train  but  deemed  the  iavourite  page 
Was  left  behind,  to  spare  his    ge ; 
Or  other  if  they  deemed,  none  dared 
To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard : 
Woe  to  the  vassal,  who  durst  pry 
Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy  ! 

XVI. 

His  conscience  slept^-he  deemed  her  well, 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But  wakened  by  her  favourite  lay, 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  boding  say, 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear, 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear, 
To  aid  remorse's  venomed  throes, 
Dark  tales  of  convent  vengeance  rose ; 
And  Constance,  late  betrayed  and  scorned, 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  returned  : 
Lovely  as  when,  at  treacherous  call, 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall, 
Crimsoned  with  shame,  with  terror  mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit, 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms, 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arm* 


161 


162 


[CANTO  UL 


XVII. 

"  Alas !"  he  thought,  "  how  changed  that  mien  J 

How  changed  these  timid  looks  have  been, 

Since  years  of  guilt,  and  of  disguise, 

Have  steeled  her  hrow,  and  armed  her  eyes  ! 

No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 

The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks ; 

Fierce,  and  unfeminine,  are  there, 

Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair ; 

And  I  the  cause — for  whom  were  given 

Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven ! — 

Would,"  thought  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 

"  I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose  ! 

Oh  why  should  man's  success  remove 

The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love ! 

Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 

Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 

And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell, 

How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 

How  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws ! 

The  penance  how — and  I  the  cause ! 

Vigil  and  scourge — perchance  even  worse  !" — 

And  twice  he  rose  to  cry  "  to  horse !" 

And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came, 

Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame ; 

And  twice  he  thought,  "  Gave  I  not  charge 

She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large  ? 

They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 

One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head." — 

XVIII. 

While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 
Repentance  and  reviving  love, 
Like  whirlwinds,  whose  contending  sway 
I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey, 
Their  Host  the  Palmer's  speech  had  heard, 
And,  talkative,  took  up  the  word : — 
"  Ay,  reverend  Pilgrim,  you,  who  stray 
From  Scotland's  simple  land  away, 

To  visit  realms  afar, 
Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know, 
Of  future  weal,  or  future  woe, 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star ; 


163 


CANTO  111.]  MARM10X. 

Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  knight-like,  he  despises  fear, 
Not  far  from  hence ; — if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told." — 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move, 
(For  man-els  still  the  vulgar  love ;) 
And,  Marmion  giving  licence  cold, 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told. 

XIX. 

THE  HOST'S  TALE. 

"  A  clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 
Since  Alexander  filled  our  throne, 
(Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name,) 
And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 
To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord : 
A  hraver  never  drew  a  sword ; 
A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power ; 
The  same,  whom  ancient  records  call 
The  founder  of  the  Gohlin-Hall.* 
I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay 
Grave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 
Of  lofty  roof,  and  ample  size, 
Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies  : 
To  hew  the  living  rock  profound, 
The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round, 
There  never  toiled  a  mortal  arm, 
It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm ; 
And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say, 
That  the  wild  clamour  and  affray 
Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell, 
Who  laboured  under  Hugo's  spell, 
Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war, 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 


"  The  king  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought, 
Deep-labouring  with  uncertain  thought : 

»  A  vaulted  hall  under  the  ancient  castle  of  Gifford,  or  Yeste 
(tor  it  bears  either  name  indifferently,)  the  construction  ot  whw 
has.  from  a  very  remote  period,  been  ascribed  to  magic 


164  MARMIOX  CCArs'TO  HI. 

Even  then  he  mustered  all  his  host, 

To  meet  upon  the  western  coast ; 

For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 

Their  oars  -within  the  firth  of  Clyde. 

There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim,* 

Ahove  Norweyan  warriors  grim, 

Savage  of  heart,  and  large  of  limb ; 

Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 

Bute,  Arran,  Cunninghame,  and  Kyle. 

Lord  Gifford,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 

Heard  Alexander  s  bugle  sound, 

And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 

But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange,T 

Came  forth, — a  quaint  and  fearful  sight ! 

His  mantle  lined  with  fox-skins  white ; 

His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 

A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 

Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore ; 

His  shoes  were  marked  with  cross  and  spell ; 

Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle  ;+ 

His  zone,  of  virgin  parchment  thin, 

Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 

Bore  many  a  planetary  sign, 

Combust,  and  retrograde,  and  trine ; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared, 

A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 


"  Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  marked  strange  lines  upon  his  face ; 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim, 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seemed,  and  dim, 

»  In  126S,  Haco,  King  of  Norway,  came  into  the  Firth  of  Clyde 
with  a  powerful  armament,  and  made  a  descent  at  Largs,  in  Ayr- 
shire. He  was  encountered  and  defeated,  on  the  2d  October,  by 
Alexander  III.  Haco  retreated  to  Orkney,  where  he  died  soon 
after  this  disgrace. 

t  Magicians,  as  is  well  known,  were  very  curious  in  tlie  clinic* 
and  form  of  their  vestments.  The  particulars  of  Sir  Hugo's  dresi 
are  to  be  found  in  the  Discourse  concerning  Devils  and  Spirits,  an- 
nexed to  REGINALD  SCOTT'S  Dilcovery  of  Witchcraft,  edition  1665. 

J  A  peiitacle  is  a  piece  of  fine  linen,  folded  vith  five  corner*, 
according  to  the  five  senses,  and  suitably  inscribed  with  charac- 
ters. This  the  magician  extends  towards  the  spirits  hich  ho 
evokes,  when  they  are  stubborn  "nd  rebellious.. 


165 


CANTO  in.]  MARMION. 

As  one  unused  to  upper  day;  _ 
Kven  his  ovra  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld,  Sir  Knight,  the  griesly  sire, 
In  this  unwonted  wild  attire ; — 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run, 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
1 1  know,'  he  said, — his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seemed  its  hollow  force, — 
'  I  know  the  cause,  although  untold, 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold : 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  woe  : 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 

XXII. 

" '  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 
Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 
Can  read,  in  fixed  or  wandering  star, 
The  issue  of  events  afar ; 
But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold 
Save  when  by  mightier  force  controlled. 
Such  late  I  summoned  to  my  hall ; 
And  though  so  potent  was  the  call, 
That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 
I  deemed  a  refuge  from  the  spell, 
Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still, 
The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 
But  thou, — who  little  know'st  thy  might, 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night, 
When  yawning  graves,  and  dying  groan, 
Proclaimed  hell's  empire  overthrown, — 
With  untaught  valour  shalt  compel 
Response  denied  to  magic  spell.' — 
*  Gramercy,'  quoth  our  monarch  free, 
4  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me, 
And,  by  this  good  and  honoured  brand, 
The  gift  of  Co3ur-de-Lion's  hand, 
Sootlily  I  swear,  that,  tide  what  tide. 
The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide.' — 

*  It  is  a  popular  article  of  faith,  that  those  who  are  born 
Christmas,  or  Good-Friday,  hare  the  power  of  seeing  spirits, : 
e  veil  of  commanding  them. 


166 


[CANTO  TO. 


His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  viewed, 

And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  renewed 

'  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  ! — mark : 
Forth  pacing  hence,  at  midnight  dark, 
The  rampart  seek,  whose  circling  crown 
Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down  ; 
A  southern  entrance  slialt  thou  find ; 
There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 
And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see, 
In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy : 
Couch  then  thy  lance,  and  spur  thy  steed—- 
Upon him  !  and  Saint  George  to  speed ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know, 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show ; — . 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life.' — 

XXIII. 

"  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring, 

Alone,  and  armed,  rode  forth  the  king 

To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round  : — 

Sir  Knight,  you  well  might  mark  the  mound. 

Left  hand  the  town, — the  Pictish  race 

The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace ; 

The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare, 

The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 

The  spot  our  village  children  know, 

For  there  the  earliest  wild  flowers  grow; 

But  woe  betide  the  wandering  wight, 

That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 

The  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear, 

Gives  ample  space  for  full  career ; 

Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven, 

By  four  deep  gaps  is  entrance  given. 

The  southernmost  our  monarch  past, 

Halted,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast ; 

And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring, 

Appeared  the  form  of  England's  king ; 

Who  then  a  thousand  leagues  afar, 

In  Palestine  waged  holy  war  : 

Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield, 

Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield, 


[CANTO  HT.  MARMION. 

Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame, 
The  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same  : 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know, 
Fell  Edward*  was  her  deadliest  foe. 

XXIT. 

"  The  vision  made  our  monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  mann'd  his  nohle  heart, 
And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 
The  Elfin  Knight  fell  horse  and  man ; 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexander's  visor  glance, 
And  razed  the  skin — a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  ground, 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compelled  the  future  war  to  show.  ^ 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain, 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field, 
On  high  his  brandished  war-axe  wield, 
And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While,  all  around  the  shadowy  kings. 
Denmark's  grim  ravens  cower'd  their  wings. 
'Tis  said,  that,  in  that  awful  night, 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight, 
Fore-showing  future  conquests  far, 
When  our  sons'  sons  wage  northern  war ; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Reddened  the  midnight  sky  with  fire ; 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore, 
Triumphant,  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  "wit  of  simple  swain. 

XXV. 

"  The  joyful  king  turned  home  again, 
Headed  his  host,  and  quelled  the  Dane ; 
But  yearly,  when  returned  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 
His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart ; 

*  Edward  L,  surnamed  Longshank*. 


167 


168  MARMION.  tCAHTO  III. 

Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
*  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start. 
Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave, 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest ! 
Yet  still  the  nightly  spear  and  shield 
The  elfin  warrior  doth  wield, 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast ; 
And  many  a  knight  hath  proved  his  chance 
In  the  charmed  ring  to  break  a  lance, 

But  all  have  foully  sped ; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight,  and  Gilbert  Hay. — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said." — 

XXVI. 

The  quaighs*  were  deep,  the  liquor  strong, 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman  throng 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign ; 
And,  with  their  lord,  the  squires  retire ; 
The  rest,  around  the  hostel  fire, 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline ; 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head, 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  v/ere  laid  : 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor, 
Oppressed  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore : 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change, 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz- Eustace  lay ; 
Scarce,  by  the  pale  moonlight,  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green  : 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream, 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  of  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke, 
And,  close  beside  him,  when  he  woke, 

*  A  wooden  cup,  composed  of  stares  hooped  togethra. 


CANTO  III.]  MARMIOX.  169 

In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form,  -with  nodding  pkune ; 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew, 
His  master  Marruion's  voice  he  knew. 

XXVIII. 

— "  Fitz- Eustace  i  rise, — I  cannot  rest ; 
Yon  churl's  wild  legend  haunts  my  breast, 
And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my  mood ; 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood ; 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth,  to  see 
The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed ; 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 
Thou  dost  not  rouse  these  drowsy  slaves ; 
I  would  not,  that  the  prating  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale, 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale." — 
Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 
Eustace  the  stable  door  undid, 
And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  arrayed, 
While,  whispering,  thus  the  Baron  said : — 

XXIX. 

"  Did'st  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell, 

That  in  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 
St  Creorge,  who  graced  my  sire's  chapelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree, 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show, 
That  I  could  meet  this  Elfin  Foe  ! 
Blithe  would  I  battle,  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite  :  - 
Vain  thought !  for  elves,  if  elves  there  be, 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea, 
To  dashing  waters  danca  and  sing, 
Or  round  the  green  oak  wheel  their  ring." — 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode, 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 

XXX. 

Fitz- Eustace  followed  him  abroad, 
Auc  marked  Mm  pace  the  village  road, 

H 


170  MAKMION.  tCAXTO  Ht 

And  listened  to  his  horse's  tramp, 
Till,  by  the  lessening  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  rouno. 
Wonder  it  seemed,  in  the  squire's  eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held,  and  wise, — 
Of  whom  'twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel,  what  the  church  believed,— 

Should,  stirred  by  idle  tale, 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night, 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Arrayed  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know, 
That  passions,  in  contending  flow, 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind ; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity, 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 

XXXI. 

Little  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared, 
But,  patient,  waited  till  he  heard, 

At  distance  pricked  to  utmost  speed, 

The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed, 
Come  town- ward  rushing  on  : 

First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trod, 

Then,  clattering  on  the  village  road,— • 

In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode,* 

Returned  Lord  Marmion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  selle, 
And,  in  his  haste,  well  nigh  he  fell ; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  rein  he  threw 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew ; 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray, 
The  falcon  crest  was  soiled  with  clay ; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see, 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee, 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs, 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines, 

«  Used  by  old  Poets  for  vxnt. 


CANTO  IV.1  MASMIOH. 

Broken  and  short ;  for  still,  between, 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene : 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  nrst  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FOURTH. 
To  JAMES  SKENE,  Esq. 

^tshestiel,  Ettricke  Forett. 
AN  ancient  minstrel  sagely  said, 
"  Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led  ?" 
That  motley  clown,  in  Arden  wood, 
Whom  humorous  Jaques  with  envy  viewed, 
Not  even  that  clown  could  amplify, 
On  this  trite  text,  so  long  as  I. 
Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell, 
Since  we  have  known  each  other  well ; 
Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 
First  drew  the  voluntary  brand ; 
And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 
Unkindness  never  came  between. 
Away  these  winged  years  have  flown, 
To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone ; 
And  though  deep  marked,  like  all  below, 
With  chequered  shades  of  joy  and  woe; 
Though  thou  o'er  realms  and  seas  hast  ranged, 
Marked  cities  lost,  and  empires  changed, 
While,  here,  at  home,  my  narrower  ken 
Somewhat  of  manners  saw,  and  men ; 
Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
Fevered  the  progress  of  these  years, 
Yet  now,  days,  weeks,  and  months,  but  seem 
The  recollection  of  a  dream, 
So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 
Of  fathomless  eternity. 

Even  now,  it  scarcely  seems  a  day, 
Since  first  I  tuned  this  idle  lay ; 
A  task  so  often  thrown  aside, 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied, 


172  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

That  now,  November's  dreary  gale, 
Whose  voice  inspired  my  opening  tale, 
That  same  November  gale  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarrow  shore ; 
Their  vex'd  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky, 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh ; 
And  Blackhouse  heights,  and  Ettricke  Pen, 
Have  don'd  their  wintry  shrouds  again ; 
And  mountain  dark,  and  flooded  mead, 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky, 
Mixed  with  the  rack,  the  snow-mists  fly : 
The  shepherd,  who,  in  summer  sun, 
Has  something  of  our  envy  won, 
As  thou  with  pencil,  I  with  pen, 
The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen  ; 
He  who,  outstretched,  the  livelong  day, 
At  ease  among  the  heath-flowers  lay, 
Viewed  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look, 
Or  slumbered  o'er  his  tattered  book, 
Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 
His  angle  o'er  the  lessened  tide ; — 
At  midnight  now,  the  snowy  plain 
Finds  sterner  labour  for  the  swain. 

When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun, 
Through  heavy  vapours  dank  and  dun ; 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm, 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail,  and  sleeted  rain, 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane  ; 
The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer,  and  fox, 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks, 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal,  and  to  dangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  and  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain ; 
Till,  dark  above,  and  white  below, 
Decided  drives  the  flaky  snow, 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  must  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine, 
To  leave  the  hearth  his  dogs  repine ; 
Whistling,  and  cheering  them  to  aid, 
Around  his  back  he  wreathes  the  plaid : 


CANTO  IV.]  MARTdlON.  1~3 

His  flock  he  gathers,  and  he  guides 

To  open  downs,  and  mountain  sides, 

Where,  fiercest  though  the  tempest  blow, 

Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 

The  blast,  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells, 

Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles ; 

Oft  he  looks  back,  while,  streaming  far, 

His  cottage  window  seems  a  star, 

Loses  its  feeble  gleam,  and  then 

Turns  patient  to  the  blast  again, 

And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep, 

Drives  through  the  gloom  his  lagging  sheep : 

If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail, 

Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale ; 

His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown, 

Close  to  the  hut,  no  more  his  own, 

Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain, 

The  morn  may  find  the  stiffen'd  swain: 

His  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale, 

His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wail; 

And,  close  beside  him,  in  the  snow, 

Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  woe, 

Couches  upon  his  master's  breast, 

And  licks  his  cheek,  to  break  his  rest. 

Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  lot, 
His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot, 
His  summer  couch  by  greenwood  tree, 
His  rustic  kirn's*  loud  revelry, 
His  native  hill  notes,  tuned  on  high, 
To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye ; 
His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  reed, 
And  all  Arcadia's  golden  creed  ? 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene, 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene  ? 
Our  youthful  summer  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee, 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage, 
Against  the  winter  of  our  age  : 
As  he,  the  ancient  chief  of  Troy, 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy ; 

*  The  Scottish  harvest-home. 


174  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

But  Grecian  fires,  and  loud  alarms, 
Called  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those, — since  each  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain, — 
Then  happy  those,  heloved  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given ; 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief, 
Whose  joys  are  chastened  hy  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine, 
When  thou  of  late  wert  doomed  to  twine,— 
Just  when  thy  bridal  hour  was  by, — 
The  cypress  with  the  myrtle  tie ; 
Just  on  thy  bride  her  Sire  had  smiled, 
And  blessed  the  union  of  his  child, 
When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer, 
And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 
Nor  did  the  actions,  next  his  end, 
Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend : 
Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  Minstrel's  shade  ;* 
The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told, 
Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold. 
Far  may  we  search  before  \ve  find 
A  heart  so  manly  and  so  kind. 
But  not  around  his  honour'd  urn, 
Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn ; 
The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried, 
Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide ; 
And  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew, 
For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 
If  mortal  charity  dare  claim 
The  Almighty's  attributed  name, 
Inscribe  above  his  mouldering  clay, 
"  The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan's  stay.** 
Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem 
My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme ; 
For  sacred  was  the  pen  that  wrote, 
"  Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not :" 

*  Sir  William  Forbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet ;  unequalled,  perhaps, 
in  the  degree  of  individual  affection  entertained  for  him  by  nil 
friends,  as  well  as  in  the  general  respect  and  esteem  of  Scotland  at 
large.  His  "  Lite  ol  Beattie,"  whom  he  befriended  and  patronised 
in  life,  as  well  as  celebrated  after  his  decease,  vns  not  long  pub- 
lished, before  the  benevolent  and  affectionate  biographer  was  called 
to  follow  the  subject  of  his  narrative. 


CA>TO  IVO  MARMION.  175 

And  grateful  title  may  I  plead, 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed, 
To  bring  my  tribute  to  bis  grave  : — 
"Tis  little—  but  'tis  all  I  have. 

To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  straia 
Recalls  our  summer  walks  again  ; 
When  doing  nought, — and,  to  speak  true, 
Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do, — 
The  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged, 
While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  changed, 
And  desultory,  as  our  way, 
Ranged  unconfined  from  grave  to  gay. 
Even  when  it  flagged,  as  oft  will  chance, 
No  effort  made  to  oreak  its  trance, 
We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 
Our  sports  in  social  silence  too. 
Thou  gravely  labouring  to  pourtray 
The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray ; 
I  spelling  o'er,  with  much  delight, 
The  legend  of  that  antique  knight, 
Tirante  by  name,  ycleped  the  White. 
At  either's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 
Pandour  and  Camp,  with  eyes  of  fire, 
Jealous,  each  other's  motions  viewed, 
And  scarce  suppressed  their  ancient  feud. 
The  laverock  whistled  from  the  cloud ; 
The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud ; 
From  the  white-thorn  the  May-flower  shed 
Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head ; 
Not  Anei  lived  more  merrily 
Under  the  blossom'd  bough,  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been  ours, 
When  Winter  stript  the  summer's  bowers ; 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear, 
The  wild  blast  sighing  deep  and  drear, 
When  fires  were  bright,  and  lamps  beamed  gay, 
And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay ; 
And  he  was  held  a  laggard  soul, 
Who  shunn'd  to  quaff  the  sparkling  bowl. 
Then  he,  whose  absence  we  deplore, 
Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore, 
The  longer  missed,  bewailed  the  more ; 


176  MARMION.  tCANTO  IV. 

And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear-loved  R , 

And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say, — 

For  not  Mimosa's  tender  tree 

Shrinks  sooner  from  the  touch  than  he, — 

In  merry  chorus  well  combined. 

With  laughter  drowned  the  whistling  wind. 

Mirth  was  within ;  and  Care  without 

Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 

Not  but  amid  the  buxom  scene 

Some  grave  discourse  might  intervene — • 

Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best, 

His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest : 

For,  like  mad  Tom's,*  our  chiefest  care, 

Was  horse  to  ride,  and  weapon  wear. 

Such  nights  we've  had  ;  and,  though  the  game 

Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame, 

And  though  the  field-day,  or  the  drill, 

Seem  less  important  now — yet  still 

Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 

The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain ; 

And  mark,  how  like  a  horseman  true, 

Lord  Maxmion's  march  I  thus  renew. 

CANTO  FOURTH. 
STfje  Camp. 


EUSTACE,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sung  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugles  blew, 
And,  with  their  light  and  lively  call, 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came,  and  free  of  heart ; 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed : 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part, 

Of  something  disarranged. 
Some  clamoured  loud  for  armour  lost ; 
Some  brawled  and  wrangled  with  the  host ; 
"  By  Becket's  bones,"  cried  one,  "  I  fear, 
That  some  false  Scot  has  stolen  my  spear  I" — 

*  See  King  Liar. 


177 


CANTO  IV.]  MAKM1UM. 

Voung  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second  squire, 

Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire ; 

Although  the  rated  horse-boy  sware, 

Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 

While  chafed  the  impatient  squire  like  thunder, 

Old  Hubert  shouts,  in  fear  and  wonder, — 

'•  Help,  gentle  Blount !  help,  comrades  all! 

Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall : 

To  Marmiou  who  the  plight  dare  tell, 

Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well  ?" — 

Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 

The  charger  panting  on  his  straw ; 

Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest,  cried, — 

"  What  else  hut  evil  could  betide, 

With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide  ? 

Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 

Been  lanthorn-led  by  Friar  Rush."* 

II. 

Fitz-Eustace,  who  the  cause  but  guessed, 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His  comrades'  clamorous  plaints  suppressed; 

He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought, 
And  found  deep  plunged  in  gloomy  thought, 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply,  as  if  he  knew  of  nought 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvelled  at  the  wonders  told, — 
Passed  them  as  accidents  of  course, 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 


Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckoned  with  their  Scottish  host ; 
And,  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
"  111  thou  deserv  st  thy  hire,"  he  said ; 

•  This  personage  was  a  sort  of  Robin  Goodfellow,  and  Jack 
0*  I.anthorn.  It  is  in  allusion  to  this  mischievous  demon  that 
M  ikon's  clown  speaks, — 

She  was  pinched,  and  pulled,  she  said, 
And  he  by/riar1*  ianltiorn  led. 
H2 


178  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

"  Dost  see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight? 

Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night, 

And  left  him  in  a  foam  ! 
I  trust,  that  soon  a  conjuring  band, 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land, 

To  their  infernal  home  : 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro."- 
The  laughing  host  looked  on  the  hire, — 
"Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire, 
And  if  thou  com'st  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broad-sword  to  be  blest, 
Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo." — 
H«re  stayed  their  talk, — for  JVIarmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journeyed  all  the  morning  day. 


The  green-sward  way  was  smooth  and  good, 

Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's  wood ; 

A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still, 

Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill ; 

There  narrower  closed,  till  over  head 

A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 

"  A  pleasant  path,"  Fitz-Eustace  said ; 

"  Such  as  where  errant  knights  might  see 

Adventures  of  high  chivalry ; 

Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast, 

With  hair  unbound,  and  looks  aghast ; 

And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here, 

In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 

Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  ami  dells ; 

And  oft,  in  such,  the  story  tells, 

The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed, 

Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed." — 

He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Marmion's  mind; 

Perchance  to  show  his  lore  designed ; 
For  Eustace  much  had  pored 

Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome, 

In  the  hall- window  of  his  home, 


CANTO  IV.]  HARMON.  1"9 

Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 

Of  Caxton  or  De  Worde. 
Therefore  he  spoke, — but  spoke  in  vain, 
For  Marmion  answered  nought  again. 


Now  sudden  distant  trumpets  shrill, 
In  notes  prolonged  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far ; 
Each  ready  archer  grasped  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know, 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land, 
Lord  Mannion's  order  speeds  the  band, 

Some  opener  ground  to  gain  ; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode, 
When  thinner  trees,  receding,  showed 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade, 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 


First  came  the  trumpets,  at  whose  clang 
So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang ; 
On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  pressed, 
With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest ; 
Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore, 
Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore 
Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 
Bute,  Islay,  Slarchmount,  Rothsay,  came, 
In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  Argent,  Or,  and  Azure  glowing, 

Attendant  on  a  King-at-arms, 
Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held, 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quelled, 

When  -wildest  its  alarms. 

VII. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age ; 
In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage, 


180  MARMIOW.  [CA2ITO IV. 

As  on  king's  errand  come ; 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye, 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home ; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage, 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage, 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age, 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Home. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced ; 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From  his  steed's  shoulder,  loin,  and  breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground, 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest, 

Embroidered  round  and  round. 
The  double  tressure  might  you  see, 

First  by  Achaius  borne, 
The  thistle,  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  king's  armorial  coat, 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colours,  blazoned  brave, 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave. 
A  train,  which  vrell  beseemed  his  state, 
But  all  unarmed,  around  him  wait. 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account, 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms, 

Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  King-at-arms  !* 


Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring, 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King ; 
For  well  the  stately  Baron  knew, 
To  him  such  courtesy  was  due, 


*  Sir  David  Lindesay  was  well  known  for  his  early  efforts  in 
favour  of  the  reformed  doctrines.  It  was  often  an  office  impnsi-a 
ou  tke  Lion  Kiiig-at-arma  to  receive  foreign  ambassadors.  Tha 
office  of  heralds,  m  feudal  times,  being  held  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance, the  inauguration  of  the  Kings-at-arms,  who  preside,!  ,.ver 
their  colleges,  was  proportionally  solemn.  In  fact,  it  was  tlie 
mimicry  at  a  royal  coronation,  except  that  the  unction  wai  uiauo 
with  wine  instead  of  otL 


CANTO  IV.]  MARMION. 

Whom  royal  James  himself -had  crowned, 
And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem ; 
And  -wet  his  brow  with  hallowed  •wine, 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 

The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made, 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said : — 
"  Though  Scotland's  King  hath  deeply  swore, 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more, 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
Prom  England  to  his  royal  court ; 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Marmion's  name, 
And  honours  much  his  warlike  fame, 
My  liege  hath  deemed  it  shame,  and  lack 
Of  courtesy,  to  turn  him  back ; 
And,  by  his  order,  I,  your  guide, 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide. 
Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry." — 


Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay, 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  hia  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied, 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain  : 
Strict  was  the  Lion-King's  command, 
That  none,  who  rode  in  Marmion's  band, 

Should  sever  from  the  train  : 
"  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes ;" 
To  Marchmount  thus,  apart,  he  said, 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right-hand  path  they  now  decline, 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 


At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind, 

Where  Crichtoun-Castle  crowns  the  bank  ;* 

»  A  large  ruinous  caatle  on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne,  about  «e- 
milt."  from  Edinburgh. 


182  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV 

For  there  the  Lion's  care  assigned 

A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank 
That  Castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne ; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  alders  moist,  and  willows  weep, 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose ; 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands ; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose, 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes, 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 


Crichtoun !  though  now  thy  miry  court 

But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep, 

Thy  turrets  rude,  and  tottered  Keep, 
Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 
Oft  have  I  traced  within  thy  fort, 

Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense, 

Scutcheons  of  honour,  or  pretence. 
Quartered  in  old  armorial  sort, 

Remains  of  rude  magnificence  : 
Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 

Th)  lordly  gallery  fair ; 
Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbraced, 
Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced, 

Adorn  thy  ruined  stair. 
Still  rises  unimpaired,  below, 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico ; 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row 
Of  fair  hewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form, 
Though  there  but  houseless  cattle  go 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore, 

Where  oft  whilome  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More ; 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement, 
May  trace,  in  undulating  line, 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 


u'r        .  i 

iui.sb  mtuses   of  QIC    ' 


CANTO  IV.] 


Another  aspect  Crichtoun  showed, 

As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rode ; 

But  yet  'twas  melancholy  state 

Received  him  at  the  outer  gate  ; 

For  none  were  in  the  castle  then, 

But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 

With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing  dame, 

To  welcome  noble  Marmion,  came ; 

Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 

Proffered  the  Baron's  rein  to  hold ; 

For  each  man,  that  could  draw  a  sword, 

Rad  marched  that  morning  with  their  lord, 

Fjxl  Adam  Hepburn,* — he  who  died 

On  Flodden,  by  his  sovereign's  side. 

Lcng  may  his  Lady  look  in  vain  ! 

She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 

Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun-Dean. 

'Twas  a  brave  race,  before  the  name 

Of  hated  Bothwell  stained  their  fame. 


And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest, 
With  every  rite  that  honour  claims, 

Attended  as  the  king's  own  guest,— 

Such  the  command  of  royal  James ; 
Who  marshalled  then  his  land's  array, 
Upon  the  Borough  moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry, 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  Baron's  moodier  fit ; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind,  and  wise, — 
Trained  in  the  lore  of  Rome,  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 

*  He  was  the  second  Earl  of  Bothwell,  and  fell  in  the  field  of 
Flodden,  where,  he  distinguished  himself  by  a  turious  atnaujpt  to 
retrieve  the  day. 


184  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

XIV. 

It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night, 

That  on  the  battlements  they  walked, 
And,  by  the  slowly  fading  light, 

Of  varying  topics  talked ; 
And,  unaware,  the  Herald- bard 
Said  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared, 

In  travelling  so  far ; 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war  :* 
And,  closer  questioned,  thus  he  told 
A  tale,  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enrolled : 

xv. 
SIR  DAVID  LINDESAY'S  TALE. 

Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair, 
Built  for  the  royal  dwelling, 

In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling ; 
And  in  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild  buck  bells+  from  ferny  brake, 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake, 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  Sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year :  £ 

*  This  story  is  told  by  Pitscottie  with  characteristic  simplicity. 
Buchanan,  in  more  elegant,  though  not  more  impressive  language, 
tells  the  same  story,  and  quotes  the  personal  information  of  our 
Sir  David  I.itidesay.  The  king's  throne,  in  St  Catharine's  aisle, 
which  he  had  constructed  for  himself,  with  twelve  stalls  for  the 
Knights  Companions  of  the  Order  of  the  Thistle,  is  still  shown 
as  the  place  where  the  apparition  was  seen. 

t  Bell  seems  to  be  an  abbreviation  of  bellow.  A  gontle  knight 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  Sir  Thomas  Wortley,  built  Waiitley 
Lodge,  in  Wanclifie  Forest,  for  the  pleasure  (as  an  ancient  inscrip- 
tion testifies)  of  "  listening  to  the  hart's  bell," 

J  The  rebellion  against  James  III.  was  signalized  by  the  cruel 
circumstance  of  his  son's  presence  in  the  hosiile  army.  When  the 
king  saw  his  own  banner  displayed  against  him,  and  his  son  in  the 
faction  of  his  enemies,  he  lost  the  little  courage  lie  ever  possessed, 
fled  out  of  the  field,  fell  from  his  horse  as  it  started  at  a  woman 
and  water-pitcher,  and  was  slain,  it  is  not  well  understood  by 
whom. 


CANTO  IT.]  MARMION. 

Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, — 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow. 
Woe  to  the  traitors,  -who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  King ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  Lent, 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent. 

XVI. 

"  When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come, 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  King,  as  wont,  was  praying ; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul 
The  chaunter's  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  Bishop  mass  was  saying — 
For  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain — 
In  Katharine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 
With  sackcloth-shirt,  and  iron  belt, 
And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming; 
Around  him,  in  their  stalls  of  state, 
The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o  er  them  beaming. 
I  too  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 
Bedeafened  with  the  jangling  knell, 
Was  watching  where  the  sunbeams  fell, 
Through  the  stained  casement  gleaming ; 
tit,  while  I  marked  what  next  befell, 
It  seemed  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stepped  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight, 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white ; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair. — 
Now,  mock  me  not,  when,  good  my  Lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word, 
That,  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace, 
His  simple  majesty  of  face, 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on, — 
Seemed  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  Saint, 
Who  propped  the  Virgin  in  her  faint, — 
The  loved  Apostle  John. 


185 


186  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 


"  He  stepped  before  the  Monarch's  chair, 
And  stood  -with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made ; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bowed  nor  bent, 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant, 

And  words  like  these  he  said, 
In  a  low  voice, — but  never  tone 
So  thrilled  through  vein,  and  nerve,  and  bone: 
'  My  mother  sent  me  from  afar, 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war, — • 

Woe  waits  on  thine  array ; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair, 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warned,  beware  : 

God  keep  thee  as  he  may  !' — 
The  wondering  Monarch  seemed,  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none  ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak, 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  Marshal  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  past ; 
But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanished  from  our  eyes, 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  billow  cast, 
That  glances  but,  and  dies."— 


While  Lindesay  told  this  marvel  strange, 

The  twilight  was  so  pale, 
He  marked  not  Marmion's  colour  change, 

While  listening  to  the  tale  : 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause, 
The  Baron  spoke  :— "  Of  Nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  hold  the  force, 
That  never  super-human  cause 

Could  e'er  controul  their  course ; 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game. 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  sceptic  creed, 


CANTO  IV.]  MARMION. 

And  made  me  credit  aught." — He  staid, 
And  seemed  to  wish  his  words  unsaid  ; 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  pressed, 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast, 

Even  when  discovery's  pain, 
To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told, 

At  Gifford,  to  his  train. 
Nought  of  the  Palmer  says  he  there, 
And  nought  of  Constance,  or  of  Clare : 
The  thoughts,  which  broke  his  sleep,  he  seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 

XIX. 

"  In  vain,"  said  he,  "  to  rest  I  spread 
My  burning  limbs,  and  couched  my  head : 

Fantastic  thoughts  returned ; 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burned. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed,  and  forth  I  rode,  • 

And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold, 
Soon  reached  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  passed  through, 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear, — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown, 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 


Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listened,  ere  I  left  the  place ; 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes, 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  served  me  true, 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view, 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise. — 
I've  fought,  Lord- Lion,  many  a  day, 
In  single  fight,  and  mixed  affray, 
And  ever,  I  myself  may  say, 

Have  borne  me  as  a  knight ; 


187 


1 88  MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

But  when  this  unexpected  foe 

Seemed  starting  from  the  gulph  helow, — 

I  care  not  though  the  truth  I  show, — 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right. 

xxi. 

*'  Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell  ? 
We  ran  our  course, — my  charger  fell : — 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell  ?— 

I  rolled  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head,  with  threatening  hand, 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  hrand, — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain ; 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast, — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight,  like  what  I  saw ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook,— 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook  ! 
I  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look, 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead. — 

I  well  believe  the  last ; 
For  ne'er,  from  visor  raised,  did  stare 
A  human  warrior,  with  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade ; 
But  when  to  good  Saint  George  I  prayed, 
(The  first  time  e'er  I  asked  his  aid,) 

He  plunged  it  in  the  sheath ; 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light, 
He  seemed  to  vanish  from  my  sight : 
The  moon-beam  drooped,  and  deepest  night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath. — 
'Twere  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face,  that  met  me  there, 
Called  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave. 

To  cumber  upper  air  : 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy." — 


CANTO  IVO  MARMIOI*.  189 


Marvelled  Sir  David  of  the  Mount  ; 
Then,  learned  in  story,  'gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  hap'q  of  old, 
When  once,  near  Norham,  there  did  fight 
A  spectre  fell,  of  liendish  might, 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

With  Brian  Buhner  bold, 
And  trained  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 

"  And  such  a  phantom,  too,  'tis  said, 

With  Highland  broad-sword,  targe,  and  plaid, 

And  fingers  red  with  gore, 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurcus  glade, 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul,  and  Achnaslaid, 

Dromouchty,  or  Glenmore. 
And  yet,  whate'er  such  legends  say, 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay, 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain, 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold, 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain  ; 
For  seldom  Lave  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  hour, 
When  guilt  we  meditate  within, 
Or  harbour  nnrepented  sin."  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned  him  half  aside, 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried, 

Then  pressed  Sir  David's  hand,  — 
But  nought,  at  length,  in  answer  said  ; 
And  here  their  farther  converse  staid, 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Should  bowne  them  with  the  rising  day, 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way,  — 

Such  was  the  King's  command. 

XXIII. 

Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road, 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode  ; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 


190  MARMION.  [CANTO  W. 

Much  might  it'boast  of  storied  lore; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er, 
Suffice  it,  that  their  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  passed  the  glen  and  scanty  rill, 
And  climbed  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gained  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 

XXIV. 

Blackford  !  on  whose  uncultured  breast, 

Among  the  broom,  and  thorn,  and  whin, 
A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest, 

While  rose,  on  breezes  thin, 
The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 
And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 

Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 
Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain, 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain ; 

And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look, 
Nought  do  I  see  unchanged  remain, 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook. 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moaij, 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 

XXV. 

But  different  far  the  change  has  been, 

Since  Marmion,  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford,  saw  that  martial  scene 

Upon  the  bent  so  brown  : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow, 
Spread  all  the  Borough-moor  below,* 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down : — 
A  thousand  did  I  say  ?  I  ween, 
Thousands  on  thousands  there  was  seen, 
That  chequered  all  the  heath  between 

The  streamlet  and  the  town ; 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far, 
Forming  a  camp  irregular ; 

»  The  Borough,  or  Comn-.OM  Moor  of  Edinburgh,  iraa  of  Tery 
great  extent,  reaching  from  the  southern  walls  of  tlw  city  to  Uie 
bottom  of  Braid  HUln. 


CANTO  IT.]  MARMION. 

Oft  giving  'way,  where  still  there  stood 

Some  reliques  of  the  old  oak  wood, 

That  darkly  huge  did  intervene, 

And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green : 

In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 

A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 

XXVI. 

For  from  Hebudes,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain, 
And  from  the  southern  Redswire  edge, 
To  farthest  llosse's  rocky  ledge ; 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Mannion  might  hear  the  raingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come ; 
The  horses'  tramp,  and  tingling  clank, 
Where  chiefs  reviewed  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh ; 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance. 
While  frequent  flashed,  from  shield  and  lance, 

The  sun  s  reflected  ray. 

XXVII. 

Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 
The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare, 
To  embers  now  the  brands  decayed, 
Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had  made. 
They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain, 
Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain, 
And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 
By  sluggish  oxen  tugged  to  war ; 
And  there  were  Borthwick's  Sisters  Seven,* 
,  And  culverins  which  France  had  giveu. 
Ill-omened  gift !  the  guns  remain 
The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 

XXVIII. 

Nor  marked  they  less,  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair ; 
Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue, 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue, 

•  Seren  culverins  so  called,  cut  by  one  Borthtrkk. 


191 


MARMION.  [CANTO  IV. 

Broad,  narrow,  swallow-tailed,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pensil,  bandrol,*  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest,  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner,  floating  wide ; 

The  staff,  a  pine-tree  strong  and  straight, 
Pitched  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown, 

Yet  bent  beneath  the  standard's  weight, 

Whene'er  the  western  wind  unrolled, 
With  toil,  the  huge  and  cumbrous  fold, 

And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field, 

Where,  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield, 
The  ruddy  Lion  ramped  in  gold-j 


Lord  Marmion  viewed  the  landscape  bright, — 
He  viewed  it  with  a  chiefs  delight, — 
Until  within  him  burned  his  heart, 
And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part, 

As  on  the  battle-day ; 
Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart, 

When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
"  Oh !  well,  Lord- Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  King  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay ; 
For,  by  Saint  George,  were  that  host  mine, 
Not  power  infernal,  nor  divine, 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline, 
Till  I  had  dimmed  their  armour's  shine 

In  glorious  battle  fray  !" — 
Answered  the  bard,  of  milder  mood : 
"  Fair  is  the  sight, — and  yet  'twere  good, 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  have  blessed, 
'Tis  better  to  sit  still  at  rest, 

Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall." — 


*  Each  of  these  feudal  ensign*  intimated  the  different  rank  of 
those  entitled  to  display  them. 

t  The  well-known  arms  of  Scotland.  According  to  Boethiiu 
»nd  Buchanan,  the  double  treasure  round  th«  rbield,  \raa  first  un- 
turned by  Achaiust  Kimf  of  Scotland*  contemporary  ot  Gharle* 
magne. 


CANTO  IV.]  MABMION.  193 

XXX. 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  surveyed. 

When  sated  with  the  martial  show 

That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 

The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go, 

And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 
With  gloomy  splendour  red ; 

For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow, 

That  round  her  sable  turrets  flow, 
The  morning  beams  were  shed. 

And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud, 

Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height, 
Where  the  huge  castle  holds  its  state 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high, 

Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kissed, 
It  gleamed  a  purple  amethyst. 

Yonder  the  shores  of  File  you  saw; 

Here  Preston- Bay,  and  Berwick-Law ; 
And,  broad  between  them  rolled, 

The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note, 

Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float, 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fltz-Eustace'  heart  felt  c!  ,  ely  pent; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  veut, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridle-hand. 
And,  making  demi-volte  in  air, 
Cried,  "  Where's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land  ! 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see ; 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repressed  his  glee. 

XXXI. 

Thus  while  they  looked,  a  flourish  proud, 
Where  mingled  trump,  and  clarion  loud* 
I 


194  MARMIOU. 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drum, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry, 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  the  sky, 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come ; 
The  whilst  the  bells,  with  distant  chime, 
Merrily  tolled  the  hour  of  prime, 

And  thus  the  Lindesay  spoke  : — 
"  Thus  clamour  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  King  to  mass  his  way  has  to" en, 
Or  to  St  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  chapel  of  Saint  Rocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame  ; 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer, 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air, 
In  signal  Hone  his  steed  should  spare, 
But  strive  which  foremost  might  repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 


"  Nor  less,"  he  said, — "  when  looking  forth, 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  North 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne  ; 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers, 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stately  nails,  and  holy  towers — 

Nor  less,"  he  said,  "  I  moan, 
To  think  what  woe  mischance  may  bring, 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  'King ; 

Or,  with  their  larum,  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  southern  sack  and  fires  to  guard 

Dun-Edin's  leaguered  wall. — 
But  not,  for  my  presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure,  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay  : — 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field, 
He  breaks  the  champion's  spear  and  shield,- 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 


[CANTO  iv. 


CANTO  V.]  MARMION. 

"When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That  England's  dames  must  weep  in  bower, 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing ; 
For  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  King." — 
And  now,  down  winding  to  the  plain, 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain, 

And  there  they  made  a  stay. — 
There  stays  the  Minstrel,  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string, 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing, 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  Court  and  King, 

In  the  succeeding  lay. 


195 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FIFTH. 
To  GEORGE  ELLIS,  Esq. 

Edinburgh. 

WHEN  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 

And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away  ; 

When  short  and  scant  the  sunbeam  throws, 

Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows, 

A  cold  and  profitless  regard. 

Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard ; 

When  sylvan  occupation's  done, 

And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 

And  hang  in  idle  tronhy,  near, 

The  game-pouch,  fishing-rod,  and  spear  j 

When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim, 

And  greyhound  with  his  length  of  limb, 

And  pointer,  now  employed  no  more, 

Cumber  our  parlour's  narrow  floor ; 

When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 

Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed ; 

When  from  our  snow-encircled  home, 

Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam. 

Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 

The  needful  water  from  the  spring ; 

When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  con'd  o'er, 

Beguiles  the  dreary1  hour  no  more. 


196  MAB.MION.  [CANTO  V. 

And  darkling  politician,  crossed, 
Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post, 
And  answering  house- wife  sore  complains 
Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  wains  : 
When  such  the  country  cheer,  I  come, 
Well  pleased,  to  seek  our  city  home  ; 
For  converse,  and  for  books,  to  change 
The  Forest's  melancholy  range, 
And  welcome,  with  renewed  delight, 
The  husy  day,  and  social  night. 

Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time, 
As  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers, 
And  Ettricke  stripped  of  forest  bowers.* 
True, — Caledonia  s  Queen  is  changed,"!* 
Since  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged, 
Within  its  steepy  limits  pent, 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement, 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood, 
Guarded  and  garrisoned  she  stood, 
Denying  entrance  or  resort, 
Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port ; 
Above  whose  arch,  suspended,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  with  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone, — but  not  so  long, 
Since,  early  closed,  and  opening  late, 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate ; 
Whose  task  from  eve  to  morning  tide 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern  then,  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow, 
Dun-Edin  !  O,  how  altered  now, 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court 
Thou  sitt'st,  like  Empress  at  her  sport, 
And  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free, 
Flinging  thy  white  arms  to  the  sea, 
For  thy  dark  cloud,  with  umbered  lower, 
That  hung  o'er  cliff,  and  lake,  and  tower, 

*  See  Introduction  to  Canto  II. 

t  The  old  Town  of  Edinburgh  was  secured  on  the  north  side  by 
a  lake,  now  drained,  and  on  the  south  by  a  wall,  which  there  was 
gome  attempt  to  make  defensible  even  so  late  as  1745.  The  gates, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  wall,  have  been  pulled  down,  m  th« 
coune  of  the  late  extensive  aud  beautiful  enlargement  of  the  tity. 


CANTO  V.]  MARMION. 

Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day. 

Not  she,  the  championess  of  old, 
In  Spenser's  magic  tale  enrolled, — 
She  for  the  charmed  spear  renowned, 
Which  forced  t-ich  knight  to  kiss  the  ground,- 
Not  she  more  changed,  when,  placed  at  rest, 
What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest,* 
She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest; 
When  from  the  corslet's  grasp  relieved, 
Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved ; 
Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile, 
Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle ; 
And  down  her  shoulders  graceful  rolled 
Her  locks  profuse,  of  paly  gold. 
They  who  whilome,  in  midnight  fight, 
Had  marvelled  at  her  matchless  might, 
No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved, 
But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved.f 
The  sights  could  jealous  pangs  beguile, 
And  charm  Malbecco's  cares  awhile ; 
And  he,  the  wandering  Squire  of  Dames, 
Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims, 
And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 
The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane ; 
Nor  durst  light  Paridel  advance, 
Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance, — 
She  charmed,  at  once,  and  tamed  the  heart, 
Incomparable  Britomarte  ! 

So  thou,  fair  City !  disarrayed 
Of  battled  wall,  and  rampart's  aid, 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier  far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 
Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown ; 
Still,  as  of  yore,  Queen  of  the  North  ! 
Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 


»  See  "The  Fairy  Queen,"  Book  ITL  Canto  IX. 
+  "  For  every  one  her  liked,  and  every  one  her  loved." 


197 


SPKNIIB  cu  abovt. 


198  MABMION.  [CANTO  V. 

Ne'er  readier  at  alarm-bell's  call 
Thy  burghers  rose  to  man  thy  wall, 
Than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line ; 
For  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand, 
Their  breasts  the  bulwarks  of  the  land. 
Thy  thousands,  trained  to  martial  toil, 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  there  fell 
The  slightest  knosp,  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come, — as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin  !  that  eventful  day, — 
Renowned  for  hospitable  deed, 
That  virtue  much  with  heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deigned  to  share ; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  fight  for  the  Good  Town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Refuge  of  injured  royalty ; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose, 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose,* 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe, 
Great  Bourbon's  reliques,  sad  she  saw. 

Truce  to  these  thoughts !— for,  as  they  rise, 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change, 
For  Fiction's  fair  romantic  range, 
Or  for  Tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night : 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I'd  rather  trim, 
Knights,  squires,  and  lovely  dames  to  see, 
Creation  of  my  fantasy, 
Than  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen, 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men. — 
•  Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon  ? 
The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost  ? 
And  can  we  say,  which  cheats  the  most  ? 

*  Henry  VI.,  with  his  queen,  his  heir,  and  the  chiefs  of  his 
family,  £ed  to  Scotland  after  tbe  fatal  battle  of  Tnwtou. 


199 


CANTO  V.]  MARMION. 

But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gala 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain, 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tones  whilere 
Could  win  the  Second  Henry's  ear,* 
Famed  Beauclerc  called,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel,  and  his  lay  approved  ? 
Who  shall  these  lingering  notes  redeem, 
Decaying  on  Oblivion's  stream ; 
Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 
Marie  translated,  Blondel  sung  ? — 
O  !  born  Time's  ravage  to  repair, 
And  make*  thy  dying  Muse  thy  care ; 
Who  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 
Was  poising  for  the  final  blow, 
The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring, 
And  break  his  glass,  and  shear  his  wing, 
And  bid,  reviving  in  his  strain, 
The  gentle  poet  live  again  ; 
Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 
An  unpedantic  moral  gay, 
Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 
On  wings  of  unexpected  wit ; 
In  letters  as  in  life  approved, 
Example  honoured,  and  beloved, — 
Dear  ELLIS  !  to  the  bard  impart 
A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art, 
To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart, — 
At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend, 
My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend ! 

Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 
Be  long  thy  pleasing  task, — but,  O  ! 
No  more  by  thy  example  teach 
What  few  can  practise,  all  can  preach ; 
With  even  patience  to  endure 
Lingering  disease,  and  painful  cure, 
And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 
By  mild  and  manly  fortitude. 
Enough,  the  lesson  has  been  given : 
Forbid  the  repetition,  Heaven  ! 


»  The  courts  of  our  Anglo-Norman  kinfts,  rather  than  those  o 
the  French  mouarchs,  produced  the  birth  of  romance  literature. 


200  MARMION.  CCANTO  V. 

Come,  listen,  then  !  for  thou  hast  known. 
And  loved,  the  Minstrel's  varying  tone ; 
Who,  like  his  Border  sires  of  old, 
Waked  a  wild  measure,  rude  and  bold, 
Till  Windsor's  oaks,  and  Ascot  plain, 
With  wonder  heard  the  northern  strain. 
Come,  listen  ! — bold  in  thy  applause, 
The  Bard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws ; 
And,  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 
Achievements  on  the  storied  pane, 
Irregularly  traced  and  planned, 
But  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand ; 
So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue, 
Field,  feast,  and  combat,  to  renew, 
And  loves,  and  arms,  and  harpers'  glee, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 

CANTO  FIFTH. 


b 

THE  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid ; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made, 
(So  Lindesay  bade,)  the  palisade, 

That  closed  the  tented  ground, 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew, 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through, 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  Southern  band  to  stare ; 
And  envy  with  their  wonder  rose, 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes  ; 
Such  length  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bows, 
So  huge,  that  many  simple  thought, 
But  for  a  vaunt  such  weapons  wrought ; 
And  little  deemed  their  force  to  feel, 
Through  links  of  mail,  and  plates  of  steel, 
When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail.* 

»  This  is  no  poetical  exaggeration.  In  some  of  the  comities  of 
England,  distinguished  for  archery,  shafts  of  this  •> traordinary 
length  were  actually  used. 


CANTO  V.]  MARMiON.  201 

II. 

Nor  less  did  Marmion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through ; 
And  much  he  marvelled  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band  : 

For  men-at-arms  were  here, 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
Oil  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height, 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train, 
Practised  their  chargers  on  the  plain, 
By  aid  of  le£.  of  hand,  and  rein, 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show ; 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain, 
And  high  curvett,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amaia 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  armed,  on  foot,  with  faces  bare,* 

For  visor  they  wore  none, 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight ; 
But  burnished  were  their  corslets  bright, 
Their  brigantines,  and  gorgets  light, 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore,  t 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight, 

And  bucklers  brighi  they  bore. 

in. 

On  foot  the  yeoman  too,  but  dressed 
In  his  steel  jack,  a  swarthy  vest, 

With  iron  quilted  well ; 
Each  at  his  back,  (a  slender  store,) 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbard,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  cross-bow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

»  The  Scottish  burgesses  were  appointed  to  be  armed  with  bowl 
and  sheaves,  swonl.  buckler,  knife,  spear,  or  a  good  axe  instead  of 
a  bow,  if  worth  £  10(1:  their  armour  to  be  of  white  or  bright  har- 
ness. They  wore  tchite  halt,  i'.e.  bright  steel  caps,  without  cre«t 

i  2 


202 


CCANTO  v. 


A  dagger-knife,  and  brand. — * 
Sober  he  seemed,  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loth  to  leave  his  cottage  dear, 

And  inarch  to  foreign  strand ; 
Or  musing  who  would  guide  his  steer, 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie ; — 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire, 
Than  theirs,  who,  scorning  danger's  name, 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valour  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 

IV. 

Not  so  the  Borderer : — bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar, 

And  joyed  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease ; 
Nor  harp,  nor  pipe,  his  ear  could  please, 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade, 
The  light-armed  pricker  plied  his  trade, — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame ; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead, 
Burghers,  to  guard  their  townships,  bleed, 

But  war's  the  Borderers'  game. 
Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor ; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day, 

Their  booty  was  secure, 
^hese,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  passed  by, 
Looked  on  at  first  with  careless  eye, 
Nor  marvelled  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 

*  Bows  and  quivers  were  hi  vain  recommended  to  the  peasantry 
of  Scotland,  by  repeated  statutes;  spears  and  axes  seem  univeiS 
sally  to  have  been  used  instead  of  them.  Their  defensive  armour 

pons  cross-bows  and  culverim  All  wore  swords  of  excellent 
temper,  and  a  voluminous  handkerchief  round  their  neck,  not  for 
cold,  but  for  cutting.  The  mace  also  was  much  used  in  the  Scot- 
tisharmy.  Whenthe  feudal  array  of  thekin^dum  was  called  forth, 
each  man  was  obliged  to  appear  with  forty  dujV  provision. 


CANTO  V.]  MARMION. 

But  when  they  saw  the  Lord  arrayed 
In  splendid  arms,  and  rich  brocade, 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said, — 

"  Hist,  Ringan  !  seest  thou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they'll  homeward  ride  ? 
O  !  could  we  but  on  Border  side, 
By  Eusedale  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide, 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair  ! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide, 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide ; 
Brown  Maudlin,  of  that  doublet  pied, 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare." 


Next  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race, 
Of  different  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man ; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  arrayed, 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made, 
The  chequered  trews,  and  belted  plaid, 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  brayed 

To  every  varying  clan  ; 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Looked  out  their  eyes,  with  savage  stare, 

On  Marmion  as  he  past ; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare ; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare, 

And  hardened  to  the  blast ; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red-deer's  undressed  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  decked  their  head ; 
Back  from  their  shoulders  hung  the  plaid 
A  broad-sword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore, 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts, — but,  O ! 
Short  was  the  shaft,  and  weak  the  bow, 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 


203 


204  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

They  raised  a  wild  and  -wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud  were  their  clamouring  tongues,  as  when 
The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  ten, 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mixed, 
Grumbled  and  yelled  the  pipes  betwixt. 


Thus  through  the  Scottish  camp  they  passed, 
And  reached  the  City  gate  at  last, 
Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 
Armed  burghers  kept  their  watch  and  ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear, 
When  lay  encamped,  in  field  so  near, 
The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 
As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go, 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show  ; 
At  every  turn,  with  dinning  clang, 
The  armourer's  anvil  clashed  and  rang  ; 
Or  toiled  the  swarthy  smith,  to  wheel 
The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel  ; 
Or  axe,  or  falchion,  to  the  side 
Of  jarring  grind-stone  was  applied. 
Page,  groom,  and  squire,  with  hurrying  pace, 
Through  street,  and  lane,  and  market-place, 

Bore  lance,  or  casque,  or  sword  ; 
While  burghers,  with  important  face, 

Described  each  new-come  lord, 
Discussed  his  lineage,  told  his  name, 
His  following,*  and  his  warlike  fame.  — 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet, 
Which  high  o'erlooked  the  crowded  street 

There  must  the  Baron  rest, 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide, 
And  then  to  Holy-  Rood  must  ride,  — 

Such  was  the  King's  behest. 
Meanwhile  the  Lion  s  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich,  and  costly  wines,*]* 

To  Marmion  and  his  train. 


»  Following—  Feudal  Retainers. 

t  In  all  transactions  of  great  or  petty  importance,  a  present  of 
riiie  was  an  uniform  aiiU  indispensable  pielirainarjr. 


205 


And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds, 
The  Baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds, 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads, 
The  palace-halls  they  gain. 

VII. 

Old  Holy- Rood  rung  merrily, 

That  night,  with  wassel,  mirth,  and  glee : 

King  James  within  her  princely  bower 

Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 

Summoned  to  spend  the  parting  hour ; 
For  he  had  charged,  that  his  array 
Should  southward  march  by  break  of  day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song, 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  masquers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright, 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  feast  outshone  his  banquets  past ; 
It  was  his  blithest, — and  his  last. 

The  dazzling  lamps,  from  gallery  gay, 

Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray ; 

Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing; 

There  ladies  touched  a  softer  string ; 

With  long-eared  cap,  and  motley  vest, 

The  licensed  fool  retailed  his  jest ; 

His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied ; 

At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied ; 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart. 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart, 

Nor  courted  them  in  vain ; 
For  often,  in  the  parting  hour. 
Victorious  love  asserts  nis  power 

O'er  coldness  and  disdain ; 

And  flinty  is  her  heart,  can  view 

To  battle  march  a  lover  true, — 

Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu, 

Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 

Tirr. 

Through  this  mixed  crowd  of  glee  and  game, 
The  King  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came, 
While,  reverend,  all  made  room. 


206  MARMIOJJ.  [CAUTO  V. 

An  easy  task  it  -was,  I  trow, 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know, 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show. 
He  doffed,  to  Marmion  bending  low. 

His  broidered  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien, 

His  cloak,  of  crimson  velvet  plied, 

Trimmed  with  the  fur  of  martin  wild; 
His  vest,  of  changeful  satin  sheen, 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled ; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown. 
Wrought  with  the  badge  of  Scotland's  crown, 
The  thistle  brave,  of  old  renown ; 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right, 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel ; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  buttoned  with  a  ruby  rare  : 
And  Marmion  deemed  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 


The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size  ; 
For  feat  of  strength,  or  exercise, 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair ; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye, 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye, 

His  short  cnrled  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists ; 
And,  oh !  he  had  that  merry  glance, 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew, 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue  ;— 
Suit  lightly  won,  and  short-lived  pain  I 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joyed  in  banquet-bower ; 
But,  mid  his  mirth,  'twas  often  strange^ 
How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 

His  look  o  ercast  and  lower, 
If,  in  a  sudden  turn,  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt, 


CANTO  V.]  MARMION.  207 

That  bound  bis  breast  in  Denance-pain, 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain.* 
Even  so  frwas  strange  how,  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er, 
Forward  he  rushed,  with  double  glee, 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry : 
Thus,  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 
And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside ; 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied, 
And,  straining  on  the  tightened  rein, 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

x. 

O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say, 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway  :>f- 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came, 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord, 
•  Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  King  to  make  accord, 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  King  allegiance  own ; 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  Turquois  ring,  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 

For  her  to  break  a  lance ; £ 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish  brand, 
And  march  three  miles  on  southern  land, 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus,  for  France's  Queen,  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest ; 

*  To  the  weight  -rf  this  belt  James  added  certain  ounces  every 
year  that  he  lived,  "lie  person  and  character  of  James  are  delin- 
eated according  to  tt'.  best  historians.  He  was  wont,  during  his 
fits  of  devotion,  to  assume  the  dress,  and  conform  to  the  rules,  of 
the  order  of  Franciscans ;  and  when  he  had  thus  done  penance  for 
gome  time  in  Stirling,  to  plunge  again  into  the  tide  of  pleasure. 

t  Our  historians  impute  to  the  king's  infatuated  passion  the 
delays  which  led  to  the  fatal  deieat  of  Floddeu. 

J  The  Queen  of  Frauce  wrote  a  lo .  e-letter  to  the  King  of  Scot- 
land,  calling  him  her  lore,  and.  beseeching  him  to  raise  her  au 
army,  and  come  three  feet  of  grofcud  on  English  ground,  for  her 
•ake.  To  that  effect  ?he  sent  him  a  ring  off  her  finger,  with  four- 
teen thousand  French  crowns  to  pay  his  expenses. 


208  MARMION. 


[CANTO  V. 


And  thus  admitted  English  fair, 
His  inmost  counsels  still  to  share: 
And  thus,  for  both,  he  madly  planned 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  land  ! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell, 
Nor  England's  fair,  nor  France's  Queen, 
Were  worth  one  pearl-drop,  bright  and  sheen, 

From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell, — 
His  own  Queen  Margaret,  who,  in  Lithgow's  bower, 
All  lonely  sat,  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 

XI. 

The  Queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile, 

And  weeps  the  weary  day, 
The  war  against  her  native  soil, 
Her  Monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil : — 
And  in  gay  Holy- Rood,  the  while, 
Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 

Upon  the  harp  to  play. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  flew ; 
And  as  she  touched  and  tuned  them  all, 
Even  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 

Was  plainer  given  to  view ; 
For,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitched  her  voice  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  King, 
And  then  around  the  silent  ring ; 
And  laughed,  and  blushed,  and  oft  did  say 
Her  pretty  oath,  by  Yea,  and  Nay, 
She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 
At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee, 
Mingled  with,  arch  simplicity, 
A  soft,  yet  lively,  air  she  rung, 
While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung. 

XII. 
LOCHINVAR. 

LiDY  HERON'S  Son*. 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 


MAKJUON. 

And  save  his  good  broad-sword  be  -weapons  had  none  • 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  Irke  the  young  Lochinvar. 
He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  canie  late : 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among    bride' s-men,   and  kinsmen,   and  brothers, 

and  all : 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword,    ^ 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 
"  0  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?" — 
"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  ; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide — 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 
The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  f  said  young  Lochmvar. 
So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by 

far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochin- 
var." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  iuli  door  and  the  charger 
stood  near ; 


210  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

"  She  is  won !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and 

they  ran : 

There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

XIII. 

The  Monarch  o'er  the  syren  hung, 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung ; 
And,  pressing  closer,  and  more  near, 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  ear. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied ; 
And  ladies  winked,  and  spoke  aside. 

The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw 
A  glance,  where  seemed  to  reign 

The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due, 

And  of  her  royal  conquest,  too, 
A  real  or  feigned  disdain  : 

Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told, 

Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  King  observed  their  meeting  eyes, 
With  something  like  displeased  surprise; 
For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook, 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or  look. 
Straight  took  he  forth  the  parchment  broad, 
Which  Marmion's  high  commission  showed : 
"  Our  Borders  sacked  by  many  a  raid, 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robbed,"  he  said ; 
"  On  day  of  truce  our  Warden  slain, 
Stout  Barton  killed,  his  vessels  ta'en — 
Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign. 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain ; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne." — 


CAWTO  V.]  MARMIOX  211 

XIV. 

He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood, 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  viewed : 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore, 
Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore, 
And,  when  his  blood  and  heart  were  high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy, 
And  all  his  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauder's  dreary  flat : 
Princes  and  favourites  long  grew  tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat.* 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddisdale, 

Its  dungeons,  and  its  towers, 
Where  BothwelTs  turrets  brave  the  air, 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair, 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now,  in  age,  he  had  laid  down 
His  armour  for  the  peaceful  gown, 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand, 
Vet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire. 
That  could,  in  youth,  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand  ; 
And  even  that  day,  at  council  board, 

Unapt  to  soothe  his  sovereign's  mood, 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood, 
And  chafed  his  royal  LonLf 

•  Archibald  DougUt,  Earl  of  Angus,  a  man  remarkable  for 
•trengtn  of  body  and  mind,  acquired  the  popular  name  of  Bell' 
the~Cat*  npon  the  following  remarkable  occasion.  When  the 
Scottish  nobility  had  assembled  to  deliberate  on  putting  the  ob- 
!£&?  fa.v?an««  °f  Jam"  III.  to  leath,  Lord  Grey  told  them 
the  fable  of  the  mice,  who  resolved  that  one  of  their  number  should 
put  a  bell  round  the  neck  of  the  cat  to  warn  them  of  its  coming ; 
bat  no  one  was  so  hardy  as  to  attempt  it.  '•  I  understand  the 
moral"  said  Angus  :  "  I  will  ttell-lfif-cat."  He  bearded  the  kine  to 
purpose  by  hanging  the  favourites  over  the  bridge  of  Lauder 
Cochran  their  chief  being  elevated  higher  than  the  ?est. 

t  Angus  was  an  old  man  when  the  war  against  England  was  re- 
solved upon.  He  earnestly  spoke  against  that  measure  from  it» 
commencement ;  and,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Flodden,  re- 
monstraled  so  freely  upon  the  impolicy  of  lighting,  that  the  king 
•aid  to  him,  with  scorn  and  indignation,  "  if  Iw  was  afraid,  he 
nugbt  go  home.-  The  earl  burst  into  lean,  at  this  insupportable 
insult,  and  retired  accordingly,  leaving  his  sons,  George, master 
of  Angus,  and  Sir  William,  of  Gk-nbervie,  to  command  his  fol- 
lowers. They  were  both  slain  in  the  battle,  with  two  hundred 
(rentlemen  of  the  name  of  Douglas. 


212  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

XV. 

His  giant-form,  like  ruined  tower, 
Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt, 
Huge-boned,  and  tall,  and  grim,  and  gaunt, 

Seemed  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower : 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew ; 
His  eye-brows  kept  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  when  the  Monarch  stood, 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued  : — 
"  Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay, 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were,  and  stern, 
To  say — Return  to  Lindisfarn, 

Until  my  herald  come  again. — 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  Hold  ;* 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold, — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade,')' 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  displayed ; 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose, 
More  than  to  face  his  country  s  foes. 
And,  I  bethink  me,  by  Saint  Stephen, 

But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first-fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta  en  by  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  heaven. 
Under  your  guard,  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades, 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay, 
Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say." — 
And,  with  the  slaughtered  favourite's  name, 
Across  the  Monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 

*  The  ruins  of  Tantallon  Castle  occupy  a  high  rock  projecting 
Into  the  German  Ocean,  about  two  miles  east  of  North  Berwick. 
The  building  is  not  seen  till  a  close  approach,  as  there  is  rising 
ground  betwixt  it  and  the  land.  The  circuit  is  of  large  extent, 
fenced  upon  three  sides  by  the  precipice  which  overhangs  the  sea, 
and  on  the  fourth  by  a  double  ditch  and  very  strong  outworks. 

+  A  very  ancient  sword,  in  possession  of  Lord  Douglas,  nears, 
among  a  xreat  deal  of  flourishing,  two  hands  pointing  to  a  heart, 
which  is  plaiKd  betwixt  them,  and  the  date  1329,  being  the  year 
in  which  liruce  charged  the  Good  Lord  Douglas  to  carry  hi*  heart 
to  the  Holy  Laud. 


MAKMIO*. 

XVI. 

In  answer  nought  could  Angus  sreak  : 

His  proud  heart  swelled  well  nigh  to  break  : 

He  turned  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 
A  burning  tear  there  stole. 

His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took. 

That  sight  his  kind  heart  could  not  hrook  : 
"  Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 

Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive  ! 

For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live, 

As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you,  — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold, 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold, 

More  tender,  and  more  true  :* 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again.  — 
And,  while  the  King  his  hand  did  rtrain, 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried, 
And  whispered  to  the  King  aside  :  — 
"  Oh  !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed  ! 
A  child  will  weep  at  bramble's  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripiing  for  a  woman's  heart  : 
But  woe  awaits  a  country,  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men.^ 
Then,  oh  !  what  omen,  dark  and  high, 
When  Douglas  wets  hia  manly  eye  r  — 

xvn. 

Displeased  was  James,  that  stranger  viewed 
And  tampered  with  his  changing  mood. 
"  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that  may," 
Thus  did  the  fiery  Monarch  say, 
"  Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day  ; 
And  if  within  Tantallon  strong, 
The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long, 
Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  faU 
At  Tamworth,  in  his  castle-hall.'"  — 

•  ODowolas!   DowglMl 
Tendir  aud  trew. 

The  Bovlatt. 


213 


214 


[CANTO  V. 


The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt, 

And  answered,  grave,  the  royal  vaunt : 

"  Much  honoured  were  my  humble  home, 

If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come ; 

But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 

And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood  ; 

Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 

On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  are  steep ; 

In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep ; 

And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn, 

And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne, 

And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 

Ere  Scotland's  King  shall  cross  the  Trent : 

Yet  pause,  brave  prince,  while  yet  you  may."— 

The  Monarch  lightly  turned  away, 

And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, — 

"  Lords,  to  the  dance, — a  hall  !  a  hall  !"* 

Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by, 

And  led  Dame  Heron  gallantly ; 

And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order, 

Rung  out — "  Blue  Bonnets  o'er  the  Border." 

XVITI. 

Leave  we  these  revels  now,  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell, 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sailed  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'sn. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide, 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide ; 

And  soon,  by  his  command, 
Were  gently  summoned  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion's  care, 
As  escort  honoured,  safe,  and  fair, 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  Abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er, 
Nor  knew  which  Saint  she  should  implore ; 
For  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

She  feared  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt ! 
The  sword,  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 

»  The  aucieut  cry  to  make  room  for  a  dance,  or  pageant 


CANTO  V.]  MAEMION. 

Unwittingly,  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  Whitby's  slides, 
Hie  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids  ; 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail, 
Or  who  would  listen  to  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner  and  nun, 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deemed  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 


Their  lodging,  so  the  King  assigned. 
To  Marmion's,  as  their  guardian,  joined ; 
And  thus  it  fell,  that,  passing  nigh, 
The  Palmer  caught  the  Abbess'  eye, 

Who  -warned  him  by  a  scroll, 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal, 
That  much  concerned  the  Church's  weal, 

And  health  of  sinners'  soul ; 
And,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 

She  named  a  place  to  meet, 
Within  an  open  balcony, 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch,  and  high, 

Above  the  stately  street ; 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home, 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 


At  night  in  secret  there  they  came, 
The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dams. 
The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 
And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 

Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 
Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar, 

You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 
A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing, 
An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 

On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high. 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky, 
Were  here  wrapt  deep  in  shade ; 


215 


216  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

There  on  their  brows  the  moon-bfam  broke, 
Through  the  faint  wreaths  of  silvery  smoke, 

And  on  the  casements  played. 
And  other  light  was  none  to  see, 

Save  torches  gliding  far, 
Before  some  chieftain  of  degree, 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  bowne  him  for  the  war. — 
A  solemn  scene  the  Abbess  chose ; 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 


"  O,  holy  Palmer  !"  she  began, — 
"  For  sure  he  must  be  sainted  man, 
Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found ; — 
For  his  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 
Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love, — 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  above  ! — 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marmion  wooed 
Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood  ; 
(Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame, 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came ;) 
And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 
And  had  made  league  with  Martin  Swart,* 
When  he  came  here  on  Simnel's  part ; 
And  only  cowardice  did  restrain 
His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  plain, — 
And  down  he  threw  his  glove  : — the  thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  King  ; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own, 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known ; 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent ; 
But  when  his  messenger  returned. 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burned : 

»  A  German  general,  who  commanded  the  auxiliaries  §ent  by 
the  Ducheis  of  Burgundy  with  Lambert  Simnel.  He  wa«  Ao. 
feated  and  killed  at  Stokefield. 


CAJtTO  V.J  MARMION.  217 

For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claimed  disloyal  aid, 
And  proved  King  Henry's  cause  betrayed. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear,  by  spear  and  shield ; — 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove, 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved  ; 
Perchance  in  prayer,  or  faith,  he  swerved  ;* 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail? 

XXII. 

"  His  squire,  who  now  De  Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doomed  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  owned  in  vain, 
That,  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care, 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had  drenched  him  with  a  beverage  rare; — 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won, 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Mannion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair, 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair, 
And  die  a  vestal  vot'ress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid, 
Ne'er  sheltered  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled ; 

Only  one  trace  of  earthly  strain, 
That  for  her  lover's  loss 

She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain, 

And  murmurs  at  the  cross. — 
And  then  her  heritage ; — it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame ; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows, 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows, 
The  falconer,  and  huntsman,  knows 

Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 

*  It  was  early  necessary  for  those  who  felt  themselves  obliged 
to  believe  in  the  divine  judgment  being  enunciated  in  the  trial  ky 
duel,  to  find  salvos  for  the  strange  and  obviously  precarious 
chances  of  the  combat. 


218  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  vot'ress  here, 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoiled  before  mine  eyes, 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win  : 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  Monarch  sworn, 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear, 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 


"  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betrayed 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid, 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine,  and  grotto  dim ; 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb ; 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim, 
And  by  the  Church  of  God ! 
For  mark  : — When  Wilton  was  betrayed, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas  !  that  sinful  maid, 

By  whom  the  deed  was  done, — 
0 !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said  ! — 

She  was  a  perjured  nun  : 
No  clerk  in  all  the  laud,  like  her, 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 

That  Marmion's  paramour, 
(For  such  vile  thing  she  was,)  should  scheme 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour ; 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
As  privy  to  his  honour's  stain, 

Illimitable  power : 
For  this  she  secretly  retained 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal, 
Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal ; 
And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deigned, 
Through  sinner's  perfidy  impure, 
Her  house's  glory  to  secure, 
And  Clare's  immortal  weaL 


CAJTTO  V.]  MARMION.  2l9 

XXIV. 

"  'Twere  long,  and  needless,  here  to  tell, 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell ; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda,  keep  her  Abbess  true ! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  mignt  do, 

While  journeying  by  the  wav? — 

0  !  blessed  Saint,  if  e'er  again 

1  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain, 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main, 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay ! — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer : 
I  give  this  packet  to  thy  care, 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare; 

And,  O  !  with  cautious  speed, 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  King ; 

And  for  thy  well-earned  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine, 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine, 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read. — 
What  ail'st  thou  ? — Speak  !" — For  as  he  took 
The  charge,  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame ;  and,  ere  reply, 
They  heard  a  faint,  yet  shrilly  tone, 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown, 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die ; 
And  loud  the  Abbess  shrieked  in  fear, 
"  Saint  Withold  save  us  ! — What  is  here  ! 

Look  at  yon  City  Cross  ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear, 

And  blazoned  banners  toss  !" — 

XXV. 

Dun-Edin's  Cross,*  a  pillar'd  stone, 
Hose  on  a  turret  octagon  ; 

*  The  cross  of  Edinburgh  was  an  ancient  and  curious  structure 
The  lower  part  was  an  octagonal  tower,  sixteen  feet  in  diameter 
and  about  nft«eu  feet  high.  At  each  angle  there  was  a  pillar,  and 
between  them  an  arch,  of  the  Grecian  shape.  Above  these  was  a 
projecting  battlement,  with  a  turret  at  each  corner,  and  medal- 
lions, of  rude  but  curious  workmanship,  between  them.  Above 
this  ro«e  the  proper  Cross,  a  column  of  one  stone,  upwards  of 
twenty  feet  high,  surmounted  with  an  unicorn.  From  the  tower 
•f  Ihe.Crotfg,  the  heralds  published  the  acts  of  Parliament* 


220  MARMION.  CCAHTO  V. 

(But  now  is  razed  that  monument^ 
Whence  royal  edict  rang, 

And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent, 

In  glorious  trumpet  clang. 
O !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead, 
Upon  its  dull  destroyer's  head  !- 
A  minstrel's  malison*  is  said. — ) 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law, 

Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen ; 
Figures,  that  seemed  to  rise  and  die, 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly, 
While  nought  confirmed  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem,  as  there 
Heralds  and  Pursuivants  prepare, 
With  trumpet  sound,  and  blazon  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim ; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud, 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame ; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 
From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd, 

This  awful  summons  came  :•}" — 

xxvi. 

"  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish,  or  foreigner,  give  ear ! 
Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here, 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear, 

I  summon  one  and  all : 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin, 
That  e'er  hath  soiled  your  hearts  within; 
I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust, 
That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust, — 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear, 

» t-.  e.  Curse. 

t  This  supernatural  citation  is  mentioned  If  all  ortr  Scottish 
historians.  It  was  probably,  like  the  apparition  at  Linlithg'nv,  an 
attempt,  by  those  averse  to  the  war,  to  impose  ucon  tho  superiti- 
tiou.  temper  of  James  IV. 


CANTO  V.]  MARMIOIf. 

By  each  o'er-mastering  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave,  and  dying  groan  I 
When  forty  days  are  past  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  Monarch's  throne, 

To  answer  and  appear."  — 
Then  thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names  :  — 
The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  James  ! 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came  ; 
Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
Ross,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle,  — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame, 
Of  Lowland,  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Fore-doomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile, 

Was  cited  there  by  name  ; 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbay, 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 
The  self-same  thundering  voice  did  say.— 

But  then  another  spoke  : 
"  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny, 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  to  Him  on  High, 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke.**  — 
At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream, 

The  siunmoner  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  Abbess  fell, 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  heads  did  tell; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  marked  not,  at  the  scene  aghast, 
What  time,  or  how,  the  Palmer  passed. 


221 


Shift  we  the  scene.  —  The  camp  doth  move. 

Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 
Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love, 

To  pray  the  prayer,  and  vow  the  vow, 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair, 
The  erey-haired  sire,  with  pious  care, 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair.  — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now  ?  and  •where 


222  MABMION. 

The  Abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare? — 
Bold  Douglas  !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge: 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand, 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band ; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command, 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmer's  altered  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen; 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war, 
Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand, 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land  ; 
And  still  looked  high,  as  if  he  planned 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed,  and  stroke, 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frocke, 
Would  first  his  mettle  bold  provoke, 

Then  soothe,  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said,  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some  half-hour's  march  behind,  there  came 
By  Eustace  governed  fair, 

A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  Dame, 
With  all  her  nuns,  and  Clare. 

No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought ; 
Ever  he  feared  to  aggravate 
Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate ; 

And  safer  'twas,  he  thought, 

To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed, 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved, 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved, 

Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 
Unless  when  fanned*by  looks  and  sighs, 
And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes ; 
He  longed  to  stretch  his  wide  command 
O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land: 
Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 
Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 
The  place  of  jealousy  supplied, 


[CANTO  T. 


CANTO  V.] 


223 


Yet  conquest,  by  that  meanness  "won 

He  almost  loathed  to  think  upon, 

Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause, 

Which  made  him  hurst  through  honour's  laws. 

If  e'er  he  loved,  'twas  her  alone, 

Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

XXIX. 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North- Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz- Eustace  hade  them  pause  a  while, 
Before  a  venerable  pile,* 

Whose  turrets  viewed,  afar. 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace,  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  Dame, 
And  prayed  Saint  Hilda's  Abbess  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  honoured  guest, 
Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare, 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  Abbess,  you  may  guess, 
And  thanked  the  Scottish  Prioress  ; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  I  ween, 
The  courteous  speech  that  passed  between. 

O'erjoyed  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave : 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend. 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 

Fitz- Eustace  said, — "  I  grieve, 

Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart, 

Such  gentle  company  to  part. — 
Think  not  discourtesy, 

But  Lords'  commands  must  be  obeyed ; 

And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said, 
That  you  must  wend  with  me. 

Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad, 

Which  to  the  Scottish  Earl  he  showed, 

Commanding,  that,  beneath  his  care, 

Without  delay,  you  shall  repair, 

To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare." — 

"•The  convent  alluded  to  a  a  foundation  of  Cistertian  nuns  ni 
Hortu  Berwick,  of  which  there  are  still  gome  remains.  It  v 
founded  by  Duncan  Earl  of  fife,  in  1216. 


224  MARMIOM.  [CANTO  V. 


The  startled  Abbess  loud  exclaimed ; 
But  she,  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed, 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  cold  as  lead, — 
She  deemed  she  heard  her  death-doom  read. 
"  Cheer  thee,  my  child  !"  the  Abbess  said, 
"  They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band." — • 

"  Nay,  holy  mother,  nay," 
Fitz- Eustace  said,  "  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care, 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay  ; 
And,  when  we  move,  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side, 
Female  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir ; 
Nor  thinks,  nor  dreams,  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word, 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be, 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  falls, 
Till  he  shall  place  her,  safe  and  free, 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls." — 
He  spoke,  and  blushed  with  earnest  grace 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face, 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaimed 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed, 

Entreated,  threatened,  grieved ; 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  prayed, 
Against  Lord  Marmion  inveighed, 
And  called  the  Prioress  to  aid, 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book, — 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook: 
"  The  Douglas,  and  the  King,"  she  said, 
"  In  their  commands  will  be  obeyed ; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  hall." — 


The  Abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again, — 


CANTO  V.]  MABMION.  225 

For  much  of  state  she  had,  — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head, 
And  —  "  Bid,"  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 

"  Thy  master,  hold  and  bad, 
The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er, 

And,  when  he  shall  there  written  see, 

That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 

Drove  the  Monks  forth  of  Coventry,* 
Bid  him  his  fate  explore  ! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust, 

His  charger  hurled  him  to  the  dust, 

And,  hy  a  base  plebeian  thrust, 
He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me  ; 

He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree, 
And  I  a  poor  recluse  ; 

Yet  oft,  in  holy  writ,  we  see 

Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 
May  the  oppressor  bruise  : 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 
The  mighty  in  his  sin, 

And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah,"  — 

Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in  : 
"  Fitz-  Eustace,  we  must  march  our  tand  ; 
St  Anton'  fire  thee  !  wilt  thou  stand 
All  day,  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand, 

To  hear  the  Lady  preach? 
By  this  good  light  !  if  thus  we  stay, 
Lord  Marmion,  for  our  fond  delay, 

Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 
Come,  don  thy  cap,  and  mount  thy  horse  ; 
The  Dame  must  patience  take  perforce."  — 

XXXII. 

"  Submit  we  then  to  force,"  said  Clare  ; 
"  But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 
His  purposed  aim  to  win  ; 

*  Robert  de  Marmion,  in  the  reign  of  King  Stephen,  having  ex 
lled  the  monks  from  the  church  of  Coventry,  was  not  long  of 

iencing  the  divine  judgment,  as  the  sa 

d  his  Suaster.    Having  waged  a  feudal 
fell, 


pell 


e  . 

ter,  Marmion's  horse  fell,  as  he  charged  against  a  body  of  tho 
's  follower*  :  the  rider's  thigh  being  broken  by  the  fall,  hu 
wa«  cut  off  by  a  common  foot-soldier,  ere  he  could  receive 


Ches 

Earl's  foll 

head  wa«  cut  off  by 

any  succo 


226  MARMION.  [CANTO  V. 

Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life ; 
But  to  be  Marmiou's  wedded  wife 

In  me  were  deadly  sin  : 
And  if  it  be  the  king's  decree, 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary, 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  coma, 

And  safely  rest  his  head, 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood, 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood, 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead ; 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own, 

Against  the  dreaded  hour ; 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone, 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there. — 
Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare  !"— 
Loud  weeps  the  Abbess,  and  bestowa 

Kind  blessings  many  a.  one ; 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose 
Bound  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried, 
And  scarce  rude  Blount  the  sight  could  bide. 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And,  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed, 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 

XXXIII. 

But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode, 

When  o'er  a  height  they  passed, 
And,  sudden,  close  before  them  showed 

His  towers,  Tantallon  vast : 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 
And  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose, 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows ; 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose, 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  draw-bridge,  outworks  strong, 
Through  studded  gates,  an  entrance  long, 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 


MAKMION.  227 


CAJfTO  V.] 

It  "was  a  •wide  and  stately  square ; 
Around  were  lodgings,  fit  and  fair, 

And  towers  of  various  form, 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far, 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 
Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 
Or  pinnace  that  sought  the  sky, 
Whence  oft  the  Warder  could  descry 

The  gathering  ocean-storm. 


Here  did  they  rest. — The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas,  why  should  I  declare, 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair  ? 

Or  why  the  tidings  say, 
Which,  varying,  to  Tantallon  came, 
By  hurrying  posts,  or  fleeter  fame, 

With  every  varying  day? 
And,  first,  they  heard  King  James  had  won 

Ettall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford ;  and  then, 

That  Norham  castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  that  sore  marvelled  Marmion ; — 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  Monarch's  hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland : 

But  whispered  news  there  came, 
That,  while  his  host  inactive  lay, 
And  melted  by  degrees  away, 
King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

With  Heron's  wily  dame. — 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield ; 

Go  seek  them  there,  and  see  : 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history. — 
At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 
On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post, 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain ; 
And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gathered  in  the  southern  land, 
And  marched  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 
Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 
That  hears  without  the  trumpet  call, 


228  MARWIOX 

Began  to  chafe,  and  swear : — 
"  A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid, 

When  such  a  field  is  near ; 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day : 
Death  to  my  fame,  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away ! 

The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why, 

Hath  'bated  of  his  courtesy  : 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I'll  stay." — 
Then  bade  his  band,  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 


[CANTO  VI. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SIXTH. 
To  RICHAKD  HEBEB,  Esq. 

Mertoun-  House,  Christmas. 
HEAP  on  more  wood ! — the  wind  is  chill ; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer  : 
Even  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain  ;* 
High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew, 
And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew ; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall, 
Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 
They  gorged  upon  the  half- dressed  steer ; 
Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer ; 

*  The  lol  of  the  heathen  Danes  (a  word  still  applied  to  Christ- 
mas in  Scotland,)  was  solemnized  with  great  festivity.  The  hu- 
mour of  the  Danes  at  table  displayed  itself  in  pelting  each  other 
with  bones ;  and  Torfeus  tells  a  curious  story,  of  one  Hottus,  who 
was  so  generally  assailed  with  these  missiles,  that  he  constructed, 
out  of  the  bones  with  which  he  was  overwhelmed,  a  very  respect- 
able intrenchment,  against  those  who  continued  the  raillery.  In  the 

»hey  danced  with  such  fury,  holding  each  other  by  the  hands, 
that,  if  the  grasp  of  any  failed,  he  was  pitched  into  the  fire  with 
the  velocity  of  a  sling.  The  sufferer,  on  such  occasions,  w;is  in- 
stantly plucked  out,  and  obliged  to  quaff  off  a  certain  measure  of 
nalty  fat  "apoiling  the  king' 3  fire." 


229 


While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  -were  thro-wn 

The  half-gnawed  rib,  and  marrow-bone  ; 

Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight, 

While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Then  forth,  in  frenzy,  would  they  hie, 

While  -wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly, 

And  dancing  rou«d  the  blazing  pile, 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while, 

As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 

The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religions  rite 
Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night  : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rang  ; 
Ou  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung  ;* 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  misletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all  ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose  ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "  post  and  pair." 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight, 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night, 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-  table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 

*  In  Roman  Catholic  countries,  mass  ii  never  said  at 
cepting  on  Christmas  eve. 


230  MAEMION.  [CANTO  VT. 

Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 

No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 

Then  was  hrought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 

By  old  blue-coated  serving-man ; 

Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high, 

Crested  with  hays  and  rosemary. 

Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell, 

How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell ; 

What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 

And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 

The  wassel  round  in  good  brown  bowls, 

Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 

There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked ;  hard  by 

Plumb-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pye ; 

Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 

At  such  high-tide,  her  savoury  goose. 

Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in, 

And  carols  roared  with  blythesoine  din ; 

If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 

It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  seo 

Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ;* 

White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 

And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made; 

But,  0  !  what  masquers  richly  dight 

Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 

England  was  merry  England,  when 

Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 

'Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale ; 

'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale ; 

A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

Still  linger  in  our  northern  clime 
Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time ; 
And  still,  within  our  vallies  here, 
We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear, 
Even  when  perchance  its  far-fetched  claim 
To  Southron  ear  sounds  empty  name ; 

»  It  seems  certain,  that  the  Mummers  of  England,  who  nsed  to 
go  about  iu  disguise  to  the  neighbouring  houses,  bearing  the  then 
ageless  ploughshare;  and  the  Guuards  of  hcotlaud,  not  yet  iu 
total  disuse,  pieseut,  in  some  indistinct  decree,  a  shadow  of  the 
Old  mysteries,  which  were  the  origin  of  the  Eugliiih  diaixuu 


CANTO  VI]  MARMIOX.  231 

For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
Is  warmer  than  the  mountain-stream.* 
And  thus,  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 
Where  my  great-grandsire  came  of  old  ;t 
With  amber  beard,  and  flaxen  hair, 
And  reverend  apostolic  air  — 
The  feast  and  holy-tide  to  share, 
And  mix  sobriety  with  wine, 
And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine  : 
Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time 
E'er  to  be  hitched  into  a  rhyme. 
The  simple  sire  could  only  boast, 
That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost  ; 
The  banished  race  of  kings  revered, 
And  lost  his  land,  —  but  kept  his  beard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kind, 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined  ; 
Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand, 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land. 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear, 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer, 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertoun's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  sweet  domain  ; 
And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face, 
And  clips  her  with  a  close  embrace  :  — 
Gladly  as  he,  we  seek  the  dome, 
And  as  reluctant  turn  us  home. 

How  just,  that,  at  this  time  of  glee, 
My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  the*  ! 
For  many  a  merry  hour  we've  known, 
And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight's  tone. 


rb  meant  to  vindi- 


,  *  "P" 

Ha" 
Hard  , 

the  uuaJI  property  he  had,  by 

of  the  house  of  s'tuirt. 


8  Y.«'«rable  old  gentleman  wa»  the  younger  brother  cf 
"f  T  hf  J^f"™-  ,.*•'»*  tlfe  cadet  of  f  cadet  of  thi 
family,  he  had  very  little  to  lo«e:  yet  be  contrived  to  IOM 


232  MARMION.  [CANTO  VI. 

Cease,  then,  my  friend  !  a  moment  cease, 
And  leave  these  classic  tomes  in  peace ! 
Of  Roman  and  of  Grecian  lore, 
Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 
These  ancients,  as  Noll  Bluff  might  say, 
Were  "pretty  fellows  in  their  day,"* 
But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail — 
On  Christmas  eve  a  Christmas  tale— 
Of  wonder  and  of  war — "  Profane  ! 
"What !  leave  the  lofty  Latian  strain, 
Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  charms, 
To  hear  the  clash  of  rusty  arms ; 
In  Fairy  Land  or  Limho  lost, 
To  jostle  conjuror  and  ghost, 
Goblin  and  witch !" — Nay,  Heber  dear, 
Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear, 
Though  Leyden  aids,  alab  !  no  more, 
My  cause  with  many-languaged  lore, 
This  may  I  say  : — in  realms  of  death 
Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  wraith; 
./Eneas,  upon  Thracia's  shore, 
The  ghost  of  murdered  Polydore ; 
For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross, 
At  every  turn,  locutus  Bos. 
As  grave  and  duly  speaks  that  ox, 
As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks ; 
Or  held,  in  Rome  republican, 
The  place  of  Common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear, 
Their  legends  wild  of  woe  and  fear. 
To  Cambria  look — the  peasant  see, 
Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy, 
And  shun  "the  spirii's  blasted  tree." 
The  Highlander,  whose  red  claymore 
The  battle  turned  on  Maida's  shore, 
"W  ill,  on  a  Friday  morn,  look  pale, 
If  asked  to  tell  a  fairy  tale  :"(• 

*  "Hannibal  was  a  pretty  fellow,  tir— a  very  pretty  fellow  In 
his  day."—  Old  Bachelor. 

f  The  belief  iu  fairies,  is  deeply  impressed  on  the  Highlanders, 
who  think  they  are  particularly  offended  with  mortals,  who  talk 
of  them,  who  wear  their  favourite  colour  green,  or  in  any  respect 
interfere  with  their  affairs.  This  is  particularly  to  be  avoided  on 
Friday,  when  they  are  more  active,  and  possessed  of  greater 
power. 


CANTO  VL3  MARMION.  233 

He  fears  the  vengsful  Elfin  King, 
Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring ; 
Invisible  to  human  ken, 
He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heber,  pass  along 
Beneath  the  towers  of  Franchemont,* 
Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air, 
Hang  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair? — 
Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 
A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay, 
Amassed  through  rapine,  and  through  wrong, 
By  the  last  lord  of  Franchemont. 
The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 
A  Huntsman  sits,  its  constant  guard; 
Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung, 
His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung; 
Before  his  feet  his  bloodhounds  lie : 
An  'twere  not  for  his  gloomy  eye, 
Whose  withering  glance  .no  heart  can  brook, 
As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look, 
As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound 
Or  ever  hollowed  to  a  hound. 
To  chase  the  fiend,  and  win  the  prize, 
In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 
An  aged  Necromantic  Priest; 
It  is  an  hundred  years  at  least, 
Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begu 
And  neither  yet  has  lost  or  won. 
And  oft  the  conjuror's  -words  will  make 
The  stubborn  Demon  groan  and  quake; 
And  oft  the  bands  of  iron  break, 
Or  bursts  one  lock,  that  still  amain, 
Fast  as  'tis  opened,  shuts  again. 
That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 
May  last  until  the  day  of  doom, 

*  It  is  finnlv  believed  by  the  neighbouring  peasantry,  that  the 
last  Baron  of  'Frauchemont  deposited,  in  one  of  the  vaults  ..f  the 
castle,  a  ponderous  chest,  containing  an  immense  treasure  in  gold 
and  silver,  which,  by  gome  magic  spell,  was  intrusted  to  tlie  care 
of  the  devil,  who  is  constantly  found  sitting  on  the  chest  in  the 
thape  of  a  huntsman.  Any  one  adventurous  enough  to  touch  the 
Chest,  is  instantly  seized 'with  tUe  palsy.  Yet  if  any  body  can 
discover  the  mystic  word*  used  by  the  person  who  deposited 
the  treasure,  aittl  pronounce  them,  tbe  fiend  muit  uiiUuUy 


234  MARMTOW.  COANTO  VI. 

Unless  the  Adept  shall  learn  to  tell 
The  very  word  that  clenched  the  spell, 
When  Franch'mont  locked  the  treasure  cell. 
An  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone, 
And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 

Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say; 
Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  heaven, 
That  warned,  in  Lithgow,  Scotland's  King, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning. 
May  pass  the  monk  of  Durham's  tale, 
Whose  Demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Fordun  grave, 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  Gohiin-Cave. 
But  why  such  instances  to  you, 
Who,  in  an  instant,  can  review 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore, 
And  furnish  twenty  thousand  more? 
Hoards,  not  like  their'  s  whose  volumes  rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Franch'mont  chest; 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use  ; 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  century, 
They  shall  not  spell  you  letters  three  ; 
Their  pleasure  in  the  book's  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfered  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  open  as  thy  heart, 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art, 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart; 
Yet  who,  of  all  who  thus  employ  them, 
Can,  like  the  owner's  self,  enjoy  them?— 
But,  hark!  I  hear  the  distant  drum: 
The  day  of  Flodden  field  is  come.  — 
Adieu,  dear  Heber  !  life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 

CANTO  SIXTH. 


i. 

WHILE  great  events  were  on  the  gale, 
And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 


CANTO  VI.]  MARMION.  235 

And  the  demeanour,  changed  and  cold, 

Of  Douglas,  fretted  Marmion  bold, 

And  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war, 

He  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar ; 

And  hopes  were  none,  that  back  again, 

Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne, 

Where  England's  King  in  leaguer  lay, 

Before  decisive  battle-day; 

While  these  things  were,  the  mournful  Clare 

Did  in  the  Dame's  devotions  share : 

For  the  good  Countess  ceaseless  prayed, 

To  Heaven  and  Saints,  her  sons  to  aid, 

And,  with  short  interval,  did  pass 

From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  masa, 

And  all  in  high  Baronial  pride, — 

A  life  both  dull  and  dignified; — 

Yet  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  pressed 

Upon  her  intervals  of  rest, 

Dejected  Clara  well  could  bear 

The  formal  state,  the  lengthened  pra*   r, 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  bea' 

The  hours  that  she  might  spend  aput. 


I  said,  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep, 

Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 

Repelled  the  insult  of  the  air, 

Which,  when  the  tempest  vexed  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by 

Above  the  rest,  a  turret  square 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear, 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield; 

The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  field, 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair, 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go; 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending, 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending, 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending, 


236  MAKMION.  I  CANTO  YI. 

Its  varying  circle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartisan,  and  line, 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign; 

Above  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlement ; 

The  billows  burst,  in  ceaseless  flow, 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land, 

Gate- works,  and  walls,  were  strongly  manned; 

No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side ; 

The  steepy  rock,  and  frantic  tide, 

Approach  of  human  step  denied; 

And  thus  these  lines,  and  ramparts  rude, 

Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 

III. 

And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair, 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there, 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry; 
Or  slow,  like  noon-tide  ghost,  would  glide 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff,  and  swelling  main, 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fane,— 
A  home  she  might  ne'er  see  again; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 
So  Douglas  bade,  the  hood  and  veil, 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale, 

And  Benedictine  gown : 
It  were  unseemly  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade. — 
Now  her  bright  locks,  with  sunny  glow 
Again  adorned  her  brow  of  snow; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders,  roundj 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound, 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remained  a  cross  with  ruby  stone; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore 
With  velvet  bound,  and  broidered  o'er, 

Her  breviary  book. 


CANTO  VI]  MAMIIOff. 

In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale,  or  twilight  dim, 

It  fearful  would  have  been, 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dressed, 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast, 

And  such  a  woeful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow, 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow, 
Saw  her,  at  distance,  gliding  slow, 

And  did  by  Mary  swear,  — 
Some  love-lorn  Fay  she  might  have  been, 
Or,  in  romance,  some  spell-bound  queen; 
For  ne'er,  in  work-day  world,  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 


Onco  -walking  thus,  at  evening  tide, 

It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied, 

And,  sighing,  thought  —  "The  Abbess  there, 

Perchance,  does  to  her  home  repair; 

Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty,  free, 

Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity; 

Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 

Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow, 

That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 

High  vision,  and  deep  mvstery; 

The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair, 

Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air, 

And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 

O  !  wherefore  to  my  duller  eye, 

Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny! 

Was  it,  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn, 

My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn? 

Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low, 

With  him  that  taught  them  first  to  glow?— 

Yet,  gentle  Abbess,  well  I  knew, 

To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due, 

And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command, 

That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band.  — 

How  ditt'erent  now1,  condemned  to  bide 

My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride.  — 

But  Marmion  has  to  learn,  ere  long, 

That  constant  mind,  and  hate  of  wrong, 


238  MARMIOIT.  [CANTO  Tt 

Descended  to  a  feeble  girl, 

From  Red  De  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl: 

Of  such  a  stem,  a  sapling  weak, 

He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 


"But  see! — what  makes  this  armour  here?" 

For  in  her  path  there  lay 

Targe,  corslet,  helm ; — she  viewed  them  near.— • 
"The  breast-plate  pierced! — Aye,  much  I  fear, 
Weak  fence  wert  thou  'gainst  foeman's  spear, 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say. — 
Thus  Wilton ! — Oh !  not  corslet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard, 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard, 

On  yon  disastrous  day !" — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood,— 
WILTON  himself  before  her  stood ! 
It  might  have  seemed  his  passing  ghost, 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost; 
And  joy  unwonted,  and  surprise, 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eyes.— 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words : 
What  skilful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues, 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven? 

Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 
Each  changing  passion's  shade; 

Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair, 

Sorrow,  surprise,  ana  pity  there, 

And  joy,  with  her  angelic  air, 

And  hope,  that  paints  the  future  fair, 

Their  varying  hues  displayed : 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending, 
Till  all,  fatigued,  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  Love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said,. 
By  many  a  tender  word  delayed^ 


CANTO  VI]  MAEMION.  239 

And  modest  Hush,  and  bursting  sigh, 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply. 

VI. 

DE  WILTON'S  HISTORY. 

"Forget  'we  that  disastrous  day, 

When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragged, — but  how  I  cannot  know, 

For  sense  and  recollection  fled, — 
I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low, 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 
Austin, — remember'  st  thou,  my  Clare, 

How  thou  didst  blush,  when  the  old  man, 
'    When  first  our  infant  love  began, 
Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair? — • 
Menials,  and  friends,  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed,— 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day, 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway.  • 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care, 
"When  sense  returned  to  wake  despair 
For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound, 
And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground, 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 
At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought, 
Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought, 
f    With  him  I  left  my  native  strand, 
And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  arrayed, 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journeyed  many  a  land; 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth, 
But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earth. 
Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  feared, 
When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge,  and  deeds  of  blood, 
Or  wild  mad  schemes  upreared. 

My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said, 

God  would  remove  him  soon; 
And  while  upon  his  dying  bed, 
He  begged  of  mo  a  boon — 


240 


[CANTO  TL 


If  ere  my  deadliest  enemy 
Beneath  my  brand  should  conquered  lie, 
Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake, 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 


"  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 
To  Scotland  next  my  rout  was  ta'en. 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew; 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found. 
That  I  had  perished  of  my  wound,-— 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true: 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress; 

For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed, 

And  trimmed  my  shaggy  beard  aad  head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  a  glass. 
A  chance  most  wond'rous  did  provide, 
That  I  should  be  that  Baron's  guide — 

I  will  not  name  his  name ! — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs; 
But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  -wrongs, 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget, 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange : 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell 
But  in  my  bosom  mustered  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 


"A  word  of  vulgar  augury, 

That  broke  from  me,  I  scarce  knew  why, 

Brought  on  a  village  tale; 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night 

I  borrowed  steed  and  mail. 
And  weapons,  from  his  sleeping  band ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postem  door, 
We  met,  and  'countered,  hand  to  hand,— • 

He  fell  on  Gifford-moor. 


CANTO  VI.]  MABMIOM. 

For  the  death-stroke  ray  brand  I  drew, 
(O  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew, 

The  Palmer  s  cowl  was  gone,) 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  J>ai(l>-— 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  staid ; 

I  left  him  there  alone. — 
O  good  old  man  !  even  from  the  grave, 
Thv  spirit  could  thy  master  save : 
If  t  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  Abbess,  in  her  fear, 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear, 
Of  power  to  clear  mv  injured  fame, 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name.— 
Perchance  you  heard  the  Abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  Hell, 

That  broke  our  secret  speech— 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade, 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  played, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best, 
"When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 

IX. 

"  Now  here,  within  Tantallon  Hold, 

To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told, 

To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 

Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright 

This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 

These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 

The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterburne, 

And  Ham-  Hotspur  forced  to  yield, 

When  the' Dead  Douglas  won  the  held. 

These  Angus  gave— his  armourer's  care, 

Ere  morn,  shall  every  breach  repair; 

For  nought,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls, 

But  ancient  armour  on  the  walls, 

And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls, 

And  women,  priests,  and  gray-haired  men ; 

The  rest  were  all  in  Twisell  glen. 

And  now  I  watch  my  armour  here, 

By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near ; 

»  mere  James  encamped  before  taking  port  en  Flodden. 
L 


242  MARMION. 

Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight, 
Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 


[CANTO  VI 


"  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare  ! 
This  Baron  means  to  guide  thee  there  : 
Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  hand. 
And  there  thy  kinsman,  Surrey,  too, 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil, 
Firmer  my  limbs,  and  strung  by  toil, 

Once  more" "  O,  Wilton !  must  we  then 

Risk  new-found  happiness  again, 
Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 
And  is  there  not  a  humble  glen, 
Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ? — 
That  reddening  brow  ! — too  well  I  know, 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow, 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name  : 
Go  then  to  fight !  Clare  bids  thee  go  ! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know, 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame ; 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel, 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel, 
And  belt  thee  with  thy  brand  of  steel, 
And  send  thee  forth  to  fame  !** — 


That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay, 
The  midnight  moon-beam  slumbering  lay, 
And  poured  its  silver  light,  and  pure, 
Through  loop-hole,  and  through  embrazure, 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall ; 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride, 

The  sober  glances  fall. 

Much  was  there  need  ;  though,  seamed  with  scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars, 


MARMION.  243 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 
Chequering  the  silvery  moon-shine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood,* 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood, 
With  mitre  sheen,  and  rocquet  white ; 

Yet  showed  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 

But  little  pride  of  prelacy : 

More  pleased  that,  in  a  barbarous  age 

He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page, 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood, 
Doffed  his  furred  gown,  and  sable  hood : 
O'er  his  huge  form,  and  visage  pale, 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail ; 
And  lean'd  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand, 
Which  wont,  of  yore,  in  battle-fray, 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. t 
He  seemed  as,  from  the  tombs  around 

Rising  at  judgment-day, 
Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 

In  all  his  old  array ; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 

xn. 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt. 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 

*  The  wen-known  Gawain  Douglas,  Bishop  of  Dunkeld,  son  of 
Archibald  Bell-the-Cat,  Earl  of  Angus.  He  was  author  of  a  Scot- 
tish metrical  version  of  the  ^5nein,  and  of  many  other  poetical 
pieces  of  great  merit.  He  bad  not  at  this  period  attained  the 
mitre. 

t  Ang-us  had  strength  and  personal  activity  corresponding  to  his 
courage.  Spens  of  Kilspindin,  a  favourite  of  James  IV.,  having 
spoken  of  him  lightly,  the  Earl  met  him  while  hawking,  and 
compelling  him  to  single  combat,  at  oua  blow  cut  asunder  hi* 
thigh  bone,  and  killed  him  on  the  snot. 


244  MARMION.  [CANTO  VI. 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue, 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried, 

He  once  had  found  untrue ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  hlade : 
"  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir ! 
For  king,  for  church,  for  lady  fair, 

See  that  thou  fight." — 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose, 
Said, — "  Wilton !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Disgrace,  and  trouble, 
For  He,  who  honour  best  bestows, 

May  give  thee  double." — 
De  Wilton  sobbed,  for  sob  he  must — 
"  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  1" — 
"  Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "  not  so ; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go, 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field ; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely— do  thy  worst ; 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first !" 


Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day, 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band, 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide  : 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered,  in  an  under  tone, 
"  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew ; 
But  Marmion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu  : — 

"  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 


945 
CANTO  VL]  MARMION. 

Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 

And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand." — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :— 

"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 

Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will, 

To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 

Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer, 

My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 

From  turret  to  foundation-stone — 

The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own ; 

And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 

The  hand  of  such  as  Marmiou  clasp. 

XIV 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  tire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And — "  This  to  me  !"  he  said, — 
"  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate: 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied ! 
And  if  thou  said'st,  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 
Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  r — 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth  :— "  And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hop'st  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go?— 
No,  by  Saint  Bryde  of  Bothwell,  no  !— 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms—what,  Warder  ho  I 
Let  the  portcullis  fall." — 


246  MARMION.  [CANTO  VL 

Lord  Marmion  turned, — well  was  his  need, 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  arch- way  sprung, 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung  : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume.* 

XV. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reached  his  baud, 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"  Horse  !  horse  !"  the  Douglas  cried,  "  and  chase  !" 

But  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  pace  : 

"  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. — 

A  letter  forged  !  Saint  Jude  to  speed ! 

Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed ! 

At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill, 

When  the  King  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 

Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 

Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line : 

*  This  ebullition  of  violence  in  the  potent  Earl  of  Angus  is  not 
without  its  example  in  the  real  history  of  the  house  of  Douglas, 
Maclellan,  tutor  of  Bomby,  having  refused  to  acknowledge  the 
pre-eminence  claimed  by  Douglas  over  the  Barons  of  Galloway, 
was  imprisoned  by  the  Earl,  in  his  castle  of  the  Thrieve.  Sir  Pat- 
rick Gray,  uncle  to  the  tutor  of  Bomby,  obtained  from  the  King  a 
"sweet  letter  of  supplication,"  pr.tying  the  Earl  to  deliver  his 
prisoner  into  Gray's  hand.  When  Sir  Patrick  arrived  at  the  castle, 
he  was  received  with  all  due  honour  ;  but  while  he  was  at  dinner, 
the  earl  caused  his  prisoner  to  be  led  forth  and  beheaded.  After 
dinner,  Sir  Patrick  presented  the  king's  letter  to  the  Earl,  who  led 
him  forth  to  the  green,  where  the  gentleman  was  lying  dead,  and 
said,  "  Sir  Patrick,  you  are  come  a  little  too  late ;  yonder  is  your 
sister's  son  lying,  but  he  wants  the  head:  take  his  body,  and  do 
with  it  what  you  wilL"  Sir  Patrick  answered  again  with  a  sore 
heart,  and  said,  "  My  lord,  if  ye  have  taken  from  him  his  head, 
dispone  upon  the  body  as  you  please :"  and  with  that  called  for  his 
horse,  and  when  he  was  on  horseback,  he  sa:d  to  the  Earl,  "My 
lord,  if  I  live,  you  shall  be  rewarded  for  your  labours,  that  you  have 
used  at  this  time,  according  to  your  demerits."  At  this  the  Earl 
was  highly  offended,  and  cried  for  horse.  Sir  Patrick,  seeing  the 
Earl's  fury,  spurred  his  horse,  but  he  was  chased  near  Edinburgh 
•re  they  left  him. 


CA>'TO  VI.  J  MARMIOX  247 

So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  hi*  fill. — 
Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thotfght  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. — 
'Tis  pity  of  him,  too,"  he  cried;  _ 
"  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride  ; 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." — 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

XVI. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  -wore  ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  crossed  the  heights  of  Stanrigg-moor. 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scann'd, 
And  missed  the  Palmer  from  the  band. — 
"  Palmer  or  not,"  young  Blount  did  say, 
"  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  riay ; 
Good  sooth  it  was  in  strange  array." 
"In  what  array?"  said  Mannion,  quick. 
"  My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick ; 
But  all  night  long,  with  clink  and  bang, 
Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang ; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 
And  from  a  loop-hole  while  I  peep, 
Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  Keep, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair,         . 
As  fearful  of  the  morning  air ; 
Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 
A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied, 
By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work, 
Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk  : 
Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall ; 
I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 
And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 
Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  Earl's  best  steed ; 
A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 
Prompt  to  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 
I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say, 
The  Earl  did  much  the  Master*  pray 
To  use  him  on  the  battle-day ; 

4t  Hia  eldest  son.  the  Master 


248  MARMION.  [CANTO  Vt 

But  he  preferred" — "  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 
Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace. — 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain — I  pray, 
What  did  Blouut  see  at  break  of  day  ?"— 


"  la  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried 
(For  I  then  stood  by  Henry's  side) 
The  Palmer  mount,  and  outwards  ride, 

Upon  the  Earl's  own  favourite  steed  ; 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armour  bright, 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight. 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight ; 

Lord  Angus  wished  him  speed." — 
The  instant  that  Fitz- Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke  ;— 
"  Ah  !  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost !" 
He  muttered  ;  "  Twas  not  fay  nor  ghost, 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold, 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould. — 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust, 

My  path  no  more  to  cross. — 
How  stand  we  now  ? — he  told  Ms  tale 
To  Douglas ;  and  with  some  avail ; 

'Twas  therefore  gloomed  his  rugged  brow. — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain, 
'Gainst  Marmion,  charge  disproved  and  vain  ? 

Small  risk  of  that  I  trow. — 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun ; 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  Nun — 

0  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive .— » 
A.  Palmer  too  ! — no  wonder  why 

1  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye  : 

I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one, 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion." 


Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to  speed 
His  troop,  and  reached,  at  eve,  the  Tweed, 


CANTO  VI]  MARMION.  249 

Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march:* 
(There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made; 
Hard  by,  ill  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells, 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardino  brood, 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood.) 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  Abbot  there 
Give  Marmion  entertainment  fair, 
And  lodging  for  his  train,  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped  on  Flodden  edge : 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show, 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow, 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  looked : — at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry, 

Amid  the  shifting  lines : 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sun-beam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know, 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe, 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

XIX. 

Even  so  it  was : — from  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 

The  Till  by  Twisel  bridge,  t 

»  Thi«  was  a  Cistertian  house  of  religion,  now  almost  entirely 
demolished.  It  is  situated  uea^  Coldstream,  almost  opposite  to 
CornhilL.  and  consequently  very  near  to  Flodden  Field. 

t  On  the  evening  previous  to  the  memorable  battle  of  Flodden, 
Surrey's  head-qtKirters  were  at  Barmoor  wood,  and  King  James 
held  an  inaccessible  position  on  the  ridge  of  Flodrien  hills,  one  of 
the  last  anil  lowest  eminences  detached  from  the  ridge  of  Cheviot. 
The  Till,  a  deep  and  slow  river,  windeil  between  the  armies.  On 
the  morning  of  the  9th  September,  1513,  Surrey  marched  in  a 

1.2 


250  MARM10N.  [CANTO  VI. 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  -while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 
Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 

By  rock,  hy  oak,  by  hawthorn  tree, 
Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing; 
Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing, 

Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim- wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet-clang, 
Twisel!  thy  rocks  deep  echo  rang; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  inarching  columns  room. 

XX. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden !  on  thy  airy  brow, 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  Dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead? 

north-westerly  direction,  and,  turning  eastward,  crossed  the  Till, 
with  his  van  and  artillery,  at  Twisel  bridge,  nigh  where  th»t 
river  joins  the  Tweed,  his  rear-guard  column  pawns  about  a 
mile  higher,  by  a  ford.  This  movement  had  the  double  effect  ol 
placing  his  army  between  King  James  and  his  supplies  from 
Scotland,  and  of  striking  the  Scottish  monarch  with  kin-prise,  as 
Ac  teems  to  have  relied  on  the  depth  of  the  river  in  liis  front. 


CANTO  VL] 


MARMION.  251 


What  vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand? — 
O,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand ! 
Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed! 
O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well  skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry — "  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right  f ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannock-bourne! — • 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still, 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden-hill. 

XXI. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high, — 
"  Hark !  hark !  my  lord,  an  English  drum! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill, 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  : — hap  what  hap, 
Mv  basnet  to  a  'prentice  cap, 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till ! — 
Yet  more !  yet  more ! — how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 

And  all  their  armour  flashing  high, 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly." — 
"Stint  in  thy  prate,"  quoth  Blount;  " thou'dst best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest."— 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, — 
"  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed  : 
The  river  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James, — as  well  I  trust, 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must, — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry,  while  the  battle  joins." — 

XXII. 

Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  Abbot  bade  adieu : 


252  MARMION.  tCANTO  Tt 

Far  less  -Would  listen  to  his  prayer, 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, 
And  muttered,  as  the  flood  they  view, 
"  The  pheasant  in  the  falcon  s  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw : 
Lord  Angus  may  the  Abbot  awe, 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford,  and  deep, 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leafs  eddies  creep, 

He  ventured  desperately ; 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide, 
Till  squire,  or  groom,  before  him  ride ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein, 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course, 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  per  force, 

The  southern  bank  they  gain ; 
Behind  them,  straggling,  came  to  shore, 

As  best  they  might,  the  train  : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  notx  in  vain ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string, 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  staid, 
And  breathed  his  staed,  his  men  arrayed, 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone, 
That,  on  a  hillock  standing  lone, 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

XXIII. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 
Of  either  host,  or  deadly  fray  ;* 

*  When  the  English  army,  by  theirskilful  counter-march,  were 
fairly  placed  between  King  James  and  his  own  country,  tho 
Scottish  monarch  resolved  to  fight;  and,  setting  fire  to  his  tents, 
descended  from  the  ridge  of  Flodden  to  somre  the  neighbouring 
eminence  of  Braukstone,  on  which  that  village  is  built.  Thus 
the  two  armies  met,  almost  without  seeing  each  otner.  The 
English  army  advanced  in  four  divisions.  When  the  smoke  waa 
somewhat  dispersed,  they  perceived  the  Scots,  who  had  moved 
down  the  hill  in  a  similar  order  of  buttle,  and  in  deep  silence. 


CAXTO  VL]  MARMIOX.  253 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west, 

And  fronted  north  and  soutu, 
And  distant  salutation  past 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth  ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle, 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  hattle, 

But  slow  and  far  between, — 
The  hillock  gained,  Lord  Marmion  staid  : 
"  Here,  by  this  cross,' '  he  gently  said, 

"  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare  : 
O  !  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer ! — 
Thou  wilt  not  ? — well, — no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare. — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain. — 
But,  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid ! 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again." — 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either  squire ;  but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

XXIT. 

" The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my  life  ! 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour ! 
Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife  : — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power : 
Myself  will  rule  this  central  host, 

Stout  Stanly  fronts  their  right, 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post, 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight  ;* 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light, 

*  6ir  Brian  Tunstall,  called  in  the  romantic  language  of  tile 
time,  Tuustall  the  Undefi  ed,  was  one  of  the  few  Englishmen  of 
rank  slain  at  Flodden,  Perhaps  he  derived  his  epithet  of  und-'filed 
from  hia  white  armour  and  banner,  as  well  as  from  his  unstained 
loyalty  and  kuightly  laith.  Hi*  place  of  roudeuce  was  Thurland 
Castle. 


254  MARMION. 


[CANTO  VI. 


Shall  be  in  rear- ward  of  the  fight, 
And  succour  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know, 

"Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go  ; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there, 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share  ; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too, 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true." — 
"  Thanks,  noble  Sorry  !"  Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid ; 
But,  Carting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt, 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  "Marmion  !  Marmiou  !"  that  the  cry 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 


Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 
On  which,  (for  far  the  day  was  spent,) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view : 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — • 
But,  see  !  look  up — on  Flodden  bent, 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." — 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke ; 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alon», 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. — 


CANTO  VL]  HARMON. 

Scarce  could  they  hear,  or  see  their  foes, 
Until  at  -weapon-point  they  close.  — 
They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway,  and  -with  lance's  thrust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 


At  length  the  freshening  western  hlast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast  ; 
And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave, 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see  :  _ 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight  ; 

Although  against  them  come, 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Highlandman, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntley,  and  with  Home. 


Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  ArgyLe  ; 


256  MARM10N.  CCANTO  VL 

Though  there  the  •western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  hare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  th6  broad-sword  plied : 
'Twas  vain. — But  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  tickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland  s  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
"With  wavering  night,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle  yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry ; 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows ; 
Advanced, — forced  back, — now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear  : — • 
"  By  heaven,  and  all  its  saints  !  I  swear, 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer,— 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  banner  rose, — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too ; — yet  staid, 
As  loth  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast, 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  vLe  fight. 


CANTO  VL]  MARMICN.  257 

XXVIII. 

Ask  me  not  -what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops,  or  reels ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels ; 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton  there?" — • 
They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 
Fight  hut  to  die.—"  Is  Wilton  there  P' — 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  here. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand; 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood,  and  sand : 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
Witt  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion ! .  .  .  . 
Young  Blount  his  armour  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 

Said—"  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone  ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head ! 

Good  night  to  Marmion." — 
"  Unnurtured  Blount !— thy  brawling  cease : 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace ;  "  peace  P' — 

XXIX. 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 
Around'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : — 
"Where's  Harry  Blount?  Fitz- Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
Redeem  my  pennon, — charge  again ! 
Cry — '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  !' — Vain ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again ! — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  : — fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring ; 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring.— 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie : 


258  MARMION.  [CANTO  VI. 

Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field ; 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield : 

Edmund  is  down  ; — my  life  is  reft ; — 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 

Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,- 

With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 

Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 

Or  victory  and  England's  lost. — 

Must  I  bid  twice  ? — hence,  varlets  !  fly ! 

Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." — 

They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 

Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 

And  half  he  murmured, — "  Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water,  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst !" — • 


O,  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 
A  ministering  angel  thou  ! — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide. 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ! — behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain-cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half- worn  letters  say, 


CANTO  VI.]  MARiUOPf. 

"Drink,  toears.  pilgrim,  ttrinfe.  antr 
jf  or.  tfje.  fetnfc.  soul,  of  £vW.  ©rej; 
SLSBfjo.  built,  tfjts.  cross,  anli  toell." 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  Monk  supporting  Marmion's  head ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 


Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  P 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose, — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !" — 

"  Alas  !"  she  said,  "  the  while, — 
O  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
Tn  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle.  '— 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide, 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

"  Then  it  was  truth  P' — he  said — "  I  knew 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 
Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stonei, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be ! — this  dizzy  trance — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." — 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  Monk. 


239 


260  MAKMION.  [CANTO  VI 


With  fruitless  labour,  Clara  bound, 

And  strove  to  staunch,  the  gushing  wound : 

The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers ; 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borm  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groan*  oftlie  dying  I" 

So  the  notes  rung ; 

"  Avoid  thee,  Fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand ! — 
O  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine ; 

O  think  on  faith  and  bliss  ! — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this."— 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale, 

And — STANLEY  !  was  the  cry ; — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  "  Victory  ! — 

"  Charge,  Chester,  charge  !  On,  Stanley,  on !"  .  .  . 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

XXXIII. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntley,  and  where  Home?— 
O  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come,- 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer,- 


CANTO  VL]  MAHMIOIC. 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain, 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side, 
Afar,  the  Royal  Standard  tiies, 
And  round  it  toils  and  bleeds  and  dies, 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 
In  vain  the  wish — for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sybil's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray.— 
"  O  Lady,"  cried  the  Monk,  "  away  !"— 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed ; 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair, 

Of  Tilmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer, 
And,  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV. 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath, 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  vollies  hailed. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed : 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep, 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep, 
That  fought  around  their  king. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though-bill-men  plie  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight  ;— 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wine 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 


262  MARMION.  CCANTO  VL 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves,  from  wasted  lands, 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 
While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disordered,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong  : 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  drear, 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield ! 

XXXV. 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side  : — 
There,  Scotland !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one ; 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone. — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully, 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain, 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain  :* 

*  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  King  James  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Flodden.  He  was  killed,  says  the  curious  French  Gazette,  within 
a  lance's  length  of  the  Karl  of  Surrey  j  and  the  same  account  adds, 
that  none  at  bu  division  were  made  prisoners,  though  many  were 


CANTO  VL]  MAKSUON.  263 

And  •well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clenched  within  his  maaly  hand, 

Beseemed  the  monarch  slain. 
But,  0  !  how  changed  since  yon  hlythe  night  !— 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight, 

Unto  my  tale  again. 

XXXTI. 

Short  is  my  tale  : — Fitz- Eustace'  care 

A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 

To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 

A  tomb,  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair, 

Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear. 

(Now  vainly  for  its  site  you  look ; 

'Twas  levelled,  when  fanatic  Brook 

The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took  ;* 

But,  thanks  to  heaven,  and  good  Saint  Chad, 

A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  !) 

There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 

His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair, 
And  priests  for  Marmion  breathed  the  prayer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods,  a  peasant  swam 
Followed  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain, — 

kCled  •  a  circumstance  that  testifies  the  desperation  of  their  resis- 
tance. The  Scottish  historians  record  many  of  the  idle  reports 
which  passed  among  the  vulgar  of  their  day.  Home  was  accused, 
bv  the  popular  voice,  not  only  of  failing  to  support  the  king,  but 
even  ofhaving  carried  him  out  of  the  field,  and  murdered  him. 
Other  reports  (rave  a  still  more  romantic  turn  to  the  king's  fate, 
and  averred,  that  Jam**  weary  of  greatness  after  the  carnage 
amonz  his  nobles,  had  gone  on  a  pilgrimage  to  merit  absolution  for 
the  death  of  his  father,  ana  the  breach  of  his  oath  of  amity  to 
Henrv 

»  fnis  storm  of  Lichfteld  cathedral,  which  had  been  garrisoned 
on  the  part  of  the  king,  took  |  lace  in  the  great  civil  war.  Lord 
Brook,  who,  with  Sir  John  Gill,  commanded  the  assailants,  was 
Shot  with  a  musket  ball  through  the  visor  of  his  helmet.  The 
royalists  remarked,  that  he  *-as  killed  by  a  shot  fired  from  st 
Chad's  Cathedral,  and  upon  St  Chad's  day,  and  received  his  death- 
wound  in  the  very  eye  with  which,  he  had  said,  he  hoped  to  se* 
the  ruin  of  all  the  cathedrals  in  England. 


264  MARMION.  CCANTO  VI 

One  of  those  flowers,  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  "  wede  away  :" 
Sore  wounded,  Sybil's  Cross  he  spied, 
And  dragged  him  to  its  foot,  and  died, 
Close  by" the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripped  and  gashed  the  slain, 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en ; 
And  thus,  in  the  proud  Baron's  tomb, 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room. 

XXXVII. 

Less  easy  task  it  were,  to  show 

Lord  Marmion  s  nameless  grave,  and  low. 

They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 
But  every  mark  is  gone  ; 

Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 

The  simple  Cross  of  Sybil  Grey, 
And  broke  her  font  of  stone  : 

But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 

Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 
Oft  halts  the  stranger  there, 

For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 

The  memorable  field  descry ; 
And  shepherd  boys  repair 

To  seek  the  water-flag  and  rush, 

And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush, 
And  plait  their  garlands  fair ; 

Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave, 

That  holds  the  bones  of  Marmion  brave. — 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill, 
With  thy  heart  commune,  and  be  still. 
If  ever,  in  temptation  strong, 
Thou  left'st  the  right  path  for  the  wrong ; 
If  every  devious  step,  thus  trode, 
Still  led  thee  farther  from  the  road ; 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom, 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb  ; 
But  say,  "  He  died  a  gallant  knight, 
With  sword  in  hand,  for  England's  right." 

XXXVIII. 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf, 
Who  cannot  image  to  himself, 


CANTO  VI.] 


235 


That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night, 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight  ; 

That,  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain, 

'Twas  Wilton  mounted  him  again  ; 

'Twas  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hewed, 

Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood! 

Unnamed  by  Hollinsbed  or  Hall, 

He  was  the  living  soul  of  all  ; 

That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain, 

He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again  ; 

And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 

With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  field.  — 

Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid, 

To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said, 

That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree, 

To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy  ; 

Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate, 

Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state  ; 

That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke. 

More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passed  the  joke  : 

That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtain  drew, 

And  Catherine's  hand  the  stocking  threw  ; 

And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day, 

That  it  was  held  enough  to  say, 

In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 

"  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare  !" 

L'ENVOY. 


Why  then  a  final  note  prolong, 

Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song, 

Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed, 

Who  long  have  listed  to  my  rede  ?*  — 

To  Statesmen  grave,  if  such  may  deiga 

To  read  the  Minstrel's  idle  strain, 

Sound  head,  clean  hand,  and  piercing  wit, 

And  patriotic  heart  —  as  PITT  ! 

A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest, 

And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best  ; 

*  (Tied  generally  for  tale, 

X 


266  MARMION.  [CAKTO  Tl 

To  every  lovely  lady  bright, 

What  can  I  wish  but  faithful  knight? 

To  every  faithful  lover  too, 

What  can  I  wish  but  lady  true? 

And  knowledge  to  the  studious  gage  ;t 

And  pillow  soft  to  head  of  age. 

To  thee,  dear  schoolboy,  whom  my  lay 

Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play 

Light  task,  and  merry  holiday ! 

To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good  night, 

And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light ! 


IN  SIX  CANTOS 


TO   THE 
MOST    NOBLE 

JOHN  JAMES,  MARQUIS  OF  ABERCORN, 

ifC.  <5-c.  4-c. 
THIS   POEM   IS   INSCRIBED 

BV 
THE  AUTHOR. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Scene  of  the  following  Poem  is  chiefly  in  the 
vicinity  of  Loch-Katrine,  in  the  West  Highlands  of 
Perthshire.  The  time  of  action  includes  six  days,  and 
the  transactions  of  each  day  occupy  a  Canto. 


an 
LADY    OF    THE   LAKE. 


CANTO  FIRST. 
£fie  Cftase. 

HARP  of  the  North !  that  mouldering  long  hast  hung 
On  the  witch-elm  that  shades  Saint  Fillan's  spring, 

And  down  the  fitful  breeze  thy  numbers  flung, 
Till  envious  ivy  did  around  thee  cling. 
Muffling  with  verdant  ringlet  every  string— 

Oh  minstrel  Harp  !  still  must  thine  accents  sleep  ? 
Mid  rustling  leaves  and  fountains  murmuring, 

Still  must  thy  sweeter  sounds  their  silence  keep, 

Nor  bid  a  warrior  smile,  nor  teach  a  maid  to  weep? 

Not  thus,  in  ancient  days  of  Caledon, 

Was  thy  voice  mute  amid  the  festal  crowd, 
When  lay  of  hopeless  love,  or  glory  won, 

Aroused  the  fearful,  or  subdued  the  proud. 

At  each  according  pause,  was  heard  aloud 
Thine  ardent  symphony  sublime  and  high ! 

Fair  dames  and  crested  chiefs  attention  bow'd; 
For  still  the  burthen  of  thy  minstrelsy 
Was   Knighthood's   dauntless   deed,  and    Beauty's 
matchless  eye. 

Oh  wake  once  more !  how  rude  soe'er  the  hand 
That  ventures  o'er  thy  magic  maze  to  stray ; 

Oh  wake  once  more !  though  scarce  my  skill  com- 
mand 

Some  feeble  echoing;  of  thine  earlier  lay : 
Though  harsh  and  faint,  and  soon  to  die  away 

And  all  unworthy  of  thy  aobler  strain, 
Yet  if  one  heart  throb  higher  at  its  away, 


270  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  I 

The  -wizard  note  has  not  been  touched  5n  vain. 
Then  silent  be  no  more !  Enchantress,  wake  again. 


The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 

Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 

And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 

In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade  ; 

But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 

Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head, 

The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 

Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 

And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 

Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 


As  chief  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

"  To  arms  !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall !" 

The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprang  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook ; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 


Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack — 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
An  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  an  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rang  out, 
An  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout ; 


CANTO  I.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        271 

With  Lark,  and  whoop,  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken, 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Paint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hilL 

IV. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  tlam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern  where  'tis  told 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old  ;* 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  the  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  per-force, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse ; 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near ; 
9o  shrewdly,  on  the  mountain  side, 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

v. 

The  noble  Stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith, 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  grey 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch- Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Ben- venue. 

'  «  Ua-rar,  or  Uaighmor,  is  a  mountain  to  the  north-east  of 
Callender,  Stirlingshire.  The  name  signifies  a  great  den  or  cavern; 
and  that  small  enclosure,  or  recess  referred  to,  is  surrounded  with 
large  rocks,  and  open  above  head.  It  is  situated  on  the  south-side, 
and  is  supposed  by  the  old  sportsmen  in  the  neighbourhood,  to 
hare  beeu  a  toil  for  deer. 


272          THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  I. 

Fresh  vigour  with  the  hope  returned — 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

Ti. 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi  s  ridge  in  air ; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith- — 
For  twice,  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  Stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar  ; 
And  when  the  Brig  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  Horseman  rode  alone. 

VII. 

Alone,  hut  with  unbated  zeal, 

That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel ; 

For,  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 

Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 

While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 

The  labouring  Stag  strained  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed,* 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came, 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game ; 

For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 

Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  staunch  ; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake, 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

Tin. 

The  hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary, 

*  Blood-hounds  bred  by  the  Abbots  of  St  Hubert,  which  were 
of  remarkable  strength,  swiftness,  aud  keenness  of  scent,  and 
therefore  greatly  prized  in  hunting. 


CANTO  L]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         273 

And  deemed  the  Stag  must  turn  to  bay, 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way ; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize, 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes  ; 
For  the  death- wound,  and  death-halloo, 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard.  drew  ;* 
But,  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock, 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock  ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosachs'  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There  while,  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 

IX. 

Close  on  the  hounds  the  hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game  ; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labours  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  to  rise  no  more. 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse, 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse : — 
"  I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  grey !" 

x. 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 

»  When  the  stag  turned  to  bay,  the  ancient  hunter  bad  the 
perilous  task  of  going  in  upon,  ami  killing  or  disabling  the  daipor- 
ate  aniitul, 

M2 


274         THE  LADT  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  I. 

Back  limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace, 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase : 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest ; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream, 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day  ; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  show'd. 


The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day* 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way  ; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below, 
Where  twined  the  path,  in  shadow  hid, 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle ; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass, 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass, 
Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
Their  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked, 
Or  mosque  of  eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair ; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed, 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade, 
All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drop  sheen, 
The  briar-rose  fell  in  streamers  green 


CANTO  17    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         275 

And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes, 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 


Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale,  and  violet  flower, 
Found  in  each  clift  a  narrow  bower  ; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain, 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain ; 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Grey  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock ; 
And  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shatter'd  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seemed  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced, 
Where  glistening  streamers  waved  and  danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 


Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet  still  and  deep, 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim 
As  served  the  wild-duck's  brood  to  swim ; 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering, 
But  broader  when  again  appearing, 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace ; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  stray' d, 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 


276         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    L CANTO  I. 

But,  •wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float, 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still, 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in.  an  inland  sea. 

XIT. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far  projecting  precipice.* 

The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 

"Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 

One  burnish'd  sheet  of  living  gold, 

Loch- Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled  ; 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay, 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay, 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light ; 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  centinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurled, 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world ; 

A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 

His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar, 

While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 

Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

xv. 

From  the  steep  promontoiy  gazed 
The  Stranger,  raptured  and  amazed ; 
And,  "  What  a  scene  was  here,"  he  cried, 
"  For  princely  pomp  or  churchman's  pride ! 
On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower ; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower ; 

*  Until  the  present  road  was  made  through  thi3  romantic  pass, 
there  was  110  mode  of  issuing  out  of  the  detile  called  the  Trosachs, 
except  by  a  sort  oi  ladder,  composed  of  the  branches  and  roots  of 


CANTO  L]          THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  277 

On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 

The  turrets  of  a  cloister  grey. 

How  blithely  might  the  bugle  horn 

Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn ! 

How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute 

Chime,  when  the  groves  were  still  and  mute  ! 

And,  when  the  midnight  moon  sfiould  lave 

Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 

How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 

The  holy  matin's  distant  hum, 

While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 

Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 

A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 

To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell ! — 

And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all, 

Should  each  bewildered  stranger  call 

To  friendly  feast,  and  lighted  hall. 

XVI. 

"  Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here  ! 
But  now — beshrew  yon  nimble  deer  ! — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare, 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare ; 
Some  mossy  bank  my  couch  must  be, 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 
Yet  pass  we  that — the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting-place  ;— 
A  summer  night,  in  green- wood  spent, 
Were  but  to-morrow  s  merriment ; 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  abound, 
Such  as  are  better  missed  than  found ; 
To  meet  wttb.  highland  plunderers  here 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer.* 
I  am  alone  ; — my  bugle  strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train ; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide, 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried." 

XVII. 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wouud, 
When  lo  !  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 

*  The  clans  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Looh  Katrine,  from  their 
jiroximity  to  the  Lowlands,  were  among  the  moat  warlike  and 
predatory  of  the  highlaudera. 


278  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  [CANTO  j. 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak. 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel,  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiS  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep, 

Eddying,  in  almost  viewless  wave, 

The  weeping  willow  twig  to  lave; 

And  kiss,  with  whispering  sound  and  slow, 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touch'd  this  silver  strand, 

Just  as  the  hunter  left  his  stand, 

And  stood  concealed  amid  the  brake, 

To  view  this  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 

She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain, 

With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent, 

And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 

And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 

Like  monument  of  Grecian  art. 

In  listening  mood,  she  seemed  to  stand 

The  guardian.  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

XVIII. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 

A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 

Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face  ! 

What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 

Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown — • 

The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light, 

Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 

Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 

Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow ; 

What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 

To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace — 

A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 

Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew ; 

E'en  the  slight  hare-bell  raised  its  head, 

Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 

What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 

The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue — 

Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear, 

The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear. 


CANTO  I.}    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 
XIX. 

A  chieftain's  daughter  seemed  the  maid ; 
Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 
Her  golden  hrooch,  such  birth  betray' d. 
And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 
Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 
Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 
The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing ; 
And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair, 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care, 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy, 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye ; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue, 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true, 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confessed 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast ; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye, 
Or  woe  or  pity  claimed  a  sigh, 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  poured  a  prayer, 
Or  tale  of  injury  called  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  north. 
One  only  passion,  unrevealed, 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  concealed, 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame  ; — 
Oh  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name? 


Impatient  of  the  silent  horn, 

Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne  :— 

"  Father !"  she  cried — the  rocks  around 

Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound, 

A  while  she  paused,  no  answer  came  — 

"Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast?"  the  name 

Less  resolutely  uttered  fell, 

The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 

"  A  stranger  I,"  the  Huntsman  said, 

Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 

The  maid  alarmed,  with  hasty  oar, 

Pushed  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore, 


279 


280        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    CCANTO  I. 

And,  when  a  space  -was  gained  between, 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen ; 
(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing, 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing.) 
Then  safe,  though  fluttered  and  amazed, 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 


On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 

Had  slightly  pressed  its  signet  sage, 

Yet  had  not  quenched  the  open  truth, 

And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth ; 

Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 

The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare, 

The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire, 

Of  hasty  love,  or  headlong  ire. 

His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould, 

For  hardy  sports,  or  contest  bold; 

And  though  in  peaceful  garb  arrayed, 

And  weaponless,  except  his  blade, 

His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride, 

As  if  a  baron's  crest  he  wore, 

And  sheathed  in  armour  trod  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he  showed, 

He  told  of  his  benighted  road  : 

His  ready  speech  flowed  fair  and  free, 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy; 

Yet  seemed  that  tone  and  gesture  bland 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 

XXII. 

A  while  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  last  replied, 
That  highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wildered  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
"  Nor  think  you  unexpected  com» 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  homr 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  de   , 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pulled  ior  you ; 


CANTO  I.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         281 

On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere, 
To  furnish  fonh  your  evening  cheer." 
"  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid, 
Your  courtesy  has  erred,"  he  said ; 
•'No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced, 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair, 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air, 
Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand, 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land." 

XXIII. 

"  I  well  believe,"  the  maid  replied. 

As  her  light  skiff  approached  the  side — 

"  I  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 

Your  foot  has  trod  Loch- Katrine's  shore  ; 

But  yet,  as  far  as  }esternight, 

Old  Allau-bane  foretold  your  plight — • 

A  grey-haired  sire,  whose  eye  intent 

Was  on  the  visioned  future  bent.* 

He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  grey, 

Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way ; 

Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien, 

Your  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 

That  tassell'd  horn  so  gaily  gilt, 

That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 

That  cap  with  heron's  plumage  trim, 

And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 

He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be, 

To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree ; 

But  light  I  held  his  prophecy, 

And  deemed  it  was  my  father's  horn, 

Whose  echoes  o'er  the  hike  were  borue." 

*  A  superstitious  belief  in  second  siqht  prevailed  in  the  Hijfhr 
lands :  it  was  called  in  G  lelic  TatMtaruVfk,  u.,m  Tuuh.  ..n  ua 
real  or  shadowy  apptarance;  and  tboK  pouMud  of  the  faculty  ari 
cnlled  Taw.'ia/n'n,  which  may  be  aptly  translated  viaiouarie* 
They  pretended  to  see  visions,  and  to  be  luiorai^ii  of  tuture  event* 
which  obtained  for  them  an  extraordinary  iuiiutuico  over  liieiy 


282 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  L 


XXIV. 

The  Stranger  smiled : — "  Since  to  your  home, 

A  destined  errant  knight  I  come, 

Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 

Doomed,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold, 

Til  lightly  front  each  high  emprize, 

For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes ; 

Permit  me,  first,  the  task  to  guide 

Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide." 

The  maid,  with  smile  suppressed  and  sly 

The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try ; 

For  seldom,  sure,  if  e'er  before, 

His  noble  hand  had  grasped  an  oar : 

Yet  with  main  strength  his  strokes  he  drew, 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew ; 

With  heads  erect  and  whimpering  cry, 

The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 

Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 

The  darkening  mirror  of  the  lake, 

Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach, 

And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 

XXV. 

The  Stranger  viewed  the  shore  around  ; 
'Twas  all  so  close  with  copse-wood  bound, 
Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
That  human  foot  frequented  there, 
Until  the  mountain-maiden  showed 
A  clambering  unsuspected  road, 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen, 
And  opened  on  a  narrow  green, 
Where  weeping  birch  and  willow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground ; 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower.* 

XXVI. 

It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size, 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device ; 

*  In  these  turbulent  times  the  Celtic  chieftain  had  usually  some 
place  of  retreat  for  the  hour  of  necessity,  which,  as  circumstances 
would  admit,  was  a  tower,  a  cavern,  or  a  rustic  hut  in  a  strong 
and  secluded  situation. 


CANTO  L] 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


Of  such  materials,  as  around 

The  workman's  hand  had  readiest  found. 

Lopped  of  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks  bared, 

And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 

To  give  the  walls  thcii  destined  height, 

The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite : 

"While  moss,  and  clay,  and  leaves  combined 

To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 

The  lighter  pine-trees,  over-head, 

Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread, 

And  withered  heath  and  rashes  dry 

Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 

Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green, 

A  rural  portico  was  seen, 

Aloft  011  native  pillars  borne, 

Of  mountain  fir  with  bark  unshorn, 

Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 

The  ivy  and  Idaean  vine, 

The  clematis,  the  favoured  flower, 

Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower, 

And  every  hardv  plant  could  bear 

Loch- Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  staid, 

And  gaily  to  the  stranger  said, 

"  On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call, 

And  enter  the  enchanted  hall !" 


"  My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be, 
My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee."  . 
He  crossed  the  threshold — and  a  clang 
Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 
To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rushed, 
But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blushed, 
When  on  the  floor  he  saw  displayed, 
Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 
Dropped  from  the  sheath,  that  careless  flung 
Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung ; 
For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace, 
Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase : 
A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 
A  battle-axe,  a  hunting  spear, 


284  TI1E  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  L 

And  broad-swords,  bows,  and  arrows  store, 
With  the  tusked  trophies  of  the  boar. 
Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died, 
And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 
The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns, 
Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns ; 
Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stained, 
That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retained, 
And  deer-skins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white, 
With  otter's  fur  arid  seal's  unite, 
In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all, 
To  garuish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 

XXVIII. 

The  •wondering  Stranger  round  him  gazed, 

And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised ; 

Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 

Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 

And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  swayed, 

"•  I  never  knew  but  one,"  he  said, 

"  Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 

A  blade  like  this  in  battle  field." 

She  sighed,  then  smiled  and  took  the  word ; 

"  You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword : 

As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand, 

As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand ; 

My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 

Of  Ferragus,  or  Ascabart  ;* 

But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 

Are  women  now,  and  menials  old." 

XXIX. 

The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came, 
Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame ; 
Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 
Had  well  become  a  princely  court, 
To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew, 
Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 
Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made, 
And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid, 

*  The  first  of  these  giants  is  well  known  to  the  admirers  of 
Anosto,  by  thenameof  Ferrau  Hewas  an  antagonist  of  Orlando, 
and  was  slain  by  him  in  single  combat.  Ascapart,  or  Asrabart, 
makea  a  very  material  figure  in  the  Ulster}'  ot  Deris  of  Hainplun, 
by  whom  he  was  conquered. 


CA>TTO  I.]         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LiKE.  285 

That  hospitality  could  claim, 

Though  all  unasked  his  birth  and  name.* 

Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest, 

That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast, 

And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 

Unquestion'd  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 

At  length  his  rank  the  Stranger  names — 

"  The  knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz-James ; 

Lord  of  a  barren  heritage, 

^\  hich  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age, 

By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil ; 

His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 

And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 

Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 

This  morning  with  Lord  Moray's  train 

He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain, 

Outstripped  his  comrades,  missed  the  deer, 

Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wandered  here." 


Fain  would  the  Knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire ; 
Well  showed  the  elder  lady's  mien, 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen ; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  displayed 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid, 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Showed  she  was  come  of  gentle  race ; 
'Twere  strange  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave, 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turned  all  inquiry  light  away. 
"  AVierd  women  we  !  by  dale  and  down, 
We  dweil  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast ; 


286        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  I. 

While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'Tis  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing." 
She  sang,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Filled  up  the  symphony  between.* 


SONG. 

"  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armour's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping." 

XXXII. 

She  paused — then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day ; 
Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

»  The  hlehlam'.ers  delighted  much  in  music,  and  harper*  were 
received  as  welcome  g^iestf,  in  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  until 


oi'i    ><   tmrutced   Quests  hud  lain, 
again. 


CANTO  I.]    THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.         287 

SOMO — continued. 

"  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen, 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 


The  hall  was  cleared — the  Stranger's  bed 

Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 

Where  oft  an  hundred  guests  had  lain, 

And  dreamed  their  forest  sports  again. 

But  vainly  did  the  heath-flower  shed 

Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head; 

Not  Ellen's  spell  had  lulled  to  rest 

The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 

In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 

Of  varied  perils,  pains,  and  woes  ; 

His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 

Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake ; 

Now  leader  of  a  broken  host, 

His  standard  falls,  his  honour's  lost. 

Then — from  my  couch  may  heavenly  might 

Chase  that  worst  phantom  of  the  night ! — 

Again  returned  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Of  confident  undoubting  truth  ; 

Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 

With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long  estranged. 

They  come,  in  dim  procession  led, 

The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead; 

As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay, 

As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 

And  doubt  distracts  him  at  the  •view, 

Oh  were  his  senses  false  or  true! 


288         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  I 

Dreamed  he  of  death,  or  broken  vow, 
Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now ! 


At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove, 

He  seemed  to  walk,  and  speak  of  love ; 

She  listened  with  a  blush  arid  sigh  ; 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  weie  high. 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp, 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  Ills  grasp ; 

The  phantom's  sex  was  changed  and  gone, 

\j  pon  its  head  a  helmet  shone ; 

Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  si/e, 

With  darkened  cheek  and  threatening  eyes, 

The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar, 

To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore. 

He  woke,  and,  panting  with  affright, 

Recalled  the  vision  of  the  night. 

The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red, 

And  deep  and  dusky  lustre  shed, 

Half  showing,  half  concealing  all 

The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall. 

Mid  those  the  stranger  fixed  his  eye 

Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high. 

And  thoughts  on  thoughts,  a  countless  throng, 

Bushed,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along, 

Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure, 

He  rose,  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 


The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom, 
Wafted  around  their  rich  perfume ; 
The  birch-trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm, 
The  aspens  slept  beneath  the  calm  ; 
The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance, 
Played  on  the  water's  still  expanse — 
Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 
Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray  ! 
He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 
While  thus  he  communed  with  his  breast  :— 
"•  Why  is  it  at  each  turn  I  trace 
Some  memory  of  that  exiled  race  ? 


CANTO  II.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        289 

Can  I  not  mountain  maiden  spy, 
But  she  must  bear  the  Douglas  eye  ? 
Can  I  not  view  a  highland  brand, 
But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand  ? 
Can  I  not  frame  a  fevered  dream, 
But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme  ? — 
I'll  dream  no  more — by  manly  ruiiid 
Not  even  in  sleep  is  will  resigned. 
My  midnight  orison  said  o'er, 
I'll  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more." 
His  midnight  orison  he  told, 
A  prayer  with  every  bead  of  gold, 
Consigned  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes, 
And  sank  in  undisturbed  repose ; 
Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew, 
And  morning  dawned  on  Ben- venue. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

Or  Islanlr. 
i. 

AT  morn  the  black-cock  trims  his  jetty  wing, 

*Tis  morning  prompts  the  linnet's  blythest  lay, 
All  nature's  children  feel  the  matin  spring 
Of  life  reviving,  with  reviving  day ; 
And  while  yon  little  bark  glides  down  the  bay, 
Wafting  the  stra.-.ger  on  his  way  again, 

Morn's  genial  influence  roused  a  Minstrel  grey,* 
And  sweetly  o'er  the  lake  was  heard  thy  strain, 
Mix'd  with  tLe  sounding  harp,  oh  white-haired  Allan- 
bane  ! 

H. 
SONG. 

"  Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might 
Flings  from  their  oars  the  spray, 

*  Highland  chieftains,  to  a  late  period,  retained  in  their  service 
the  bard,  as  a  family  officer.     The  bard  WHS   the  historian  and 
genealogist  of  the  clan,  besides  being  the  domestic  mvisiciau  of  the 
chief,  aud  sometimes  the  preceptor  of  the  young  laird. 
N 


290         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  H 

Not  faster  yonder  rippling  bright, 

That  tracks  the  shallop's  course  in  light, 

Melts  in  the  lake  away, 
Than  men  from  memory  erase 
The  benefits  of  former  days ; 
Then,  Stranger,  go !  good  speed  the  while, 
Nor  think  again  of  the  lonely  isle. 
"  High  place  to  thee  in  royal  court, 

High  place  in  battled  line, 
Good  hawk  and  hound  for  sylvan  sport, 
Where  Beauty  sees  the  brave  resort, 

The  honoured  meed  be  thine  ! 
True  be  thy  sword,  thy  triend  sincere, 
Thy  lady  constant,  kind,  aud  dear, 
And  lost  in  love's  and  friendship  s  smile, 
Be  memory  of  the  lonely  isle. 

III. 
SONG — continued. 

"  But  if  beneath  von  southern  sky 

A  plaided  stranger  roam, 
Whose  drooping  crest  and  stifled  sigh, 
And  sunken  cheek  and  heavy  eye, 

Pine  for  his  highland  home  ; 
Then,  warrior,  then  be  thine  to  show 
The  care  that  soothes  a  wanderer's  woe ; 
Remember  then  thy  hap  ere  while 
A  stranger  in  the  lonely  isle. 

"  Or  if  on  life's  uncertain  main 

Mishap  shall  mar  thy  sail ; 
If  faithful,  wise,  and  brave  in  vain, 
Woe,  want,  and  exile  thou  sustain 

Beneath  the  fickle  gale ; 
Waste  not  a  sigh  on  fortune  changed, 
On  thankless  courts,  or  friends  estranged, 
But  come  where  kindred  worth  shall  smile, 
To  greet  thee  in  the  lonely  isle." 


As  died  the  sounds  upon  the  tide, 

The  shallop  reached  the  main-land  side, 


CANTO  II.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LA.KE.        291 

And  ere  his  onward  way  he  took, 
The  Stranger  cast  a  lingering  look, 
\Vhere  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  Harper  on  the  islet  beach, 
Reclined  against  a  blighted  tree, 
As  wasted,  grey,  and  worn  as  he. 
To  minstrel  meditation  given, 
His  reverend  brow  was  raised  to  heaven, 
As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 
A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 
His  hand,  reclined  upon  the  wire, 
Seemed  watching  the  awakening  fire ; 
^  So  still  he  sate,  as  those  who  wait 
Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate ; 
So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 
To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair ; 
So  still  as  life  itself  were  fled, 
Jn  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 

T. 

Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smiled. 
Smiled  she  to  see  the  stately  drake 
Lead  forth  his  fleet  upon  the  lake, 
While  her  vexed  spaniel,  from  the  beach, 
Bayed  at  the  prize  beyond  his  reach  ? 
Yet  tell  me  then  the  maid  who  knows, 
Why  deepened  on  her  cheek  the  rose  ? — 
Forgive,  forgive,  Fidelity ! 
Perchance  the  maiden  smiled  to  see 
Yon  parting  lingerer  wave  adieu, 
And  stop  and  turn  to  wave  anew ; 
And,  lovely  ladies,  ere  your  ire 
Condemn  the  heroine  of  my  lyre, 
Show  me  the  fair  would  scorn  to  spy, 
And  prize  such  conquest  of  her  eye ! 

VI. 

While  yet  he  loitered  on  the  spot, 
It  seemed  as  Ellen  marked  him  not, 
But  when  he  turned  him  to  the  glade, 
One  courteous  parting  sign  she  made* 
And  after,  oft  the  knight  would  say, 
That  not  when  prize  of  festal  day 


292        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  II. 

Was  dealt  him  by  the  brightest  fair, 

Who  e'er  wore  jewel  in  her  hair, 

So  highly  did  his  bosom  swell, 

As  at  that  simple  mute  farewell. 

Now  with  a  trusty  mountain  guide, 

And  his  dark  stag-hounds  by  his  side, 

He  parts — the  maid,  unconscious  still, 

Watched  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill ; 

But  when  his  stately  form  was  hid, 

The  guardian  in  her  bosom  chid — 

"  Thy  Malcolm  !  vain  and  seltish  maid  !" 

'Twas  thus  upbraiding  conscience  said ; 

"  Not  so  had  Malcolm  idly  hung 

On  the  smooth  phrase  of  southern  tongue ; 

Not  so  had  Malcolm  strained  his  eye 

Another  step  than  thine  to  spy." 

"  Wake,  Allan-bane  !"  aloud  she  cried, 

To  the  old  Minstrel  by  her  side, 

"  Arouse  thea  from  thy  moody  dream ! 

I'll  give  thy  harp  heroic  theme, 

And  warm  thee  with  a  noble  name  ; 

Pour  forth  the  glory  of  the  Graeme."* 

Scarce  from  her  lip  the  word  had  rushed, 

When  deep  the  conscious  maiden  blushed, 

For  of  his  clan,  in  hall  and  bower, 

Young  Malcolm  Graeme  was  held  the  flower. 

VII. 

The  Minstrel  waked  his  harp — three  times 
Arose  the  well-known  martial  chimes, 
And  thrice  their  high  heroic  pride 
In  melancholy  murmurs  died. 
"  Vainly  thou  bidd'st,  oh  noble  maid  P* 
Clashing  his  withered  hands,  he  said, 
"Vainly  thou  bidd'st  me  wake  the  strain, 
Though  all  unwont  to  bid  in  vain. 

•  This  ancient  and  powerful  family  held  extensive  possessions 
in  the  counties  of  Dunbarton  and  Stirling.  Few  families  can  boast 
of  more  historical  renown,  having  claim  to  three  of  the  most  re- 
markable characters  in  the  Scottish  annals.  Sir  John  the  Graane. 
the  faithful  and  undaunted  compatriot  of  Wallace,  who  fell  in  the 
unfortunate  field  of  Falkirk,  in  (•<*>».  The  celebrated  Marquis  of 
Montrose,  in  whom  De  Retz  saw  realized  his  abstract  idea  of  the 
heroes  of  antiquity.  And,  John  Grahame  of  Clavei  house,  Viscouut 
of  Dundee,  who  fell  iu  the  arms  of  victory. 


CA>'TO  IL]         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  293 

Alas !  than  mine  a  mightier  hand 

Has  tuned  my  harp,  my  strings  has  spanned ; 

I  touch  the  chords  of  joy,  but  low 

And  mournful  answer  notes  of  woe ; 

And  the  proud  march  which  victors  tread, 

Sinks  in  the  wailing  for  the  dead. 

Oh  well  for  me,  if  mine  alone 

That  dirge's  deep  prophetic  tone  ! 

If,  as  my  tuneful  fathers  said, 

This  harp,  which  erst  Saint  Modan  swayed, 

Can  thus  its  master's  fate  foretell, 

Then  welcome  be  the  minstrel's  knell ! 

TUT. 

"  But  ah  !  dear  lady,  thus  it  sighed 

The  eve  thy  sainted  mother  died ; 

And  such  the  sounds  which,  while  I  strove 

To  wake  a  lay  of  war  or  love, 

Came  marring  all  the  festal  mirth. 

Appalling  me  who  gave  them  birth, 

And,  disobedient  to  my  call, 

Wailed  loud  through  Dothwell's  bannered  hafl, 

Ere  Douglases  to  ruin  driven, 

Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven.* 

Oil !  if  yet  worse  mishap  and  woe 

My  master's  house  must  undergo, 

Or  aught  but  weal  to  Ellen  fair, 

Brood  in  these  accents  of  despair, 

No  future  bard,  sad  harp  !  shall  fling 

Triumph  or  rapture  from  thy  string ; 

One  short,  one  final  strain  shall  flow, 

Fraught  with  unutterable  woe, 

Then  shivered  shall  thy  fragments  lie, 

Thy  master  cast  him  down  and  die." 

*  The  downfall  of  the  Douglases  of  the  house  of  Angus,  during 
the  reign  of  James  V.  1528,  is  the  event  alluded  to  in  the  text. 
The  Earl  of  Angus,  had  married  the  queen  Dowager,  and  availing 
himself  of  the  right  which  he  thus  acquired,  as  well  as  of  his  ex- 
tensive power,  he  retained  the  king  in  a  sort  of  tutelage,  which 
approached  very  near  to  captivity.  This  treatment  so  exasperated 
the  youthful  and  chivalrous  king  that  when  he  effected  his  escape 
to  Stirling  Castle,  he  swore  in  his  auger— that  no  Douglas  should, 
while  he  lived  and  reignetl,  find  favour  or  countenance  in  Scotland 
—and  he  followed  out  hw  revenge,  with  such  an  inveterate  hatred, 
that  even  their  nearest  friends,  in  the  remotest  parts  of  Scotland 
durst  not  entertain  them  unless  under  the  strictest  and  closest 


294        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.     [CANTO  II. 
IX. 

Soothing  she  answered  him,  "  Assuage, 

Mine  honoured  friend,  the  fears  of  age ; 

All  melodies  to  thee  are  known, 

That  harp  has  rung,  or  pipe  has  blown, 

In  lowland  vale,  or  highland  glen, 

From  Tweed  to  Spey — what  marvel,  then, 

At  times,  unbidden  notes  should  rise, 

Confusedly  bound  in  memory's  ties, 

Entangling,  as  they  rush  along, 

The  war-march  with  the  funeral  song? 

Small  ground  is  now  for  boding  fear ; 

Obscure,  but  safe,  we  rest  us  here. 

My  sire,  in  native  virtue  great, 

Resigning  lordship,  lands,  and  state, 

Not  then  to  fortune  more  resigned, 

Than  yonder  oak  might  give  the  wind ; 

The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave, 

The  "noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve. 

For  me" — she  stooped,  and,  looking  round, 

Plucked  a  blue  hare-bell  from  the  ground, 

"  For  me,  whose  memory  scarce  conveys 

An  image  of  more  splendid  days, 

This  little  flower,  that  loves  the  lea, 

May  well  my  simple  emblem  be ; 

It  drinks  heaven's  dew  as  blithe  as  rose 

That  in  the  King's  own  garden  grows, 

And  when  I  place  it  in  my  hair, 

Allan,  a  bard  is  bound  to  swear 

He  ne'er  saw  coronet  so  fair." 

Then  playfully  the  chaplet  wild 

She  wreathed  in  her  dark  locks,  and  smiled. 


Her  smile,  her  speech,  with  winning  sway, 
Wiled  the  old  harper's  mood  away. 
With  such  a  look  as  hermits  throw 
When  angels  stoop  to  soothe  their  woe, 
He  gazed,  till  fond  regret  and  pride 
Thrilled  to  a  tear,  then  thus  replied : — 
"  Loveliest  and  best !  thou  little  know°st 
The  rank,  the  honours  thou  hast  lost ! 


CANTO  It]         THE  L4DY  OF  THE  LAKE.  296 

Oh  might  I  live  to  see  thee  grace, 
In  Scotland's  court,  thy  birthright  place, 
To  see  my  favourite's  step  advance, 
The  lightest  in  the  courtly  dance, 
The  cause  of  every  gallant's  sigh, 
And  leading  star  of  every  eye, 
And  theme  of  every  minstrel's  art, 
The  Lady  of  the  Bleeding  Heart  !"* 


"  Pair  dreams  are  these,"  the  maiden  cried, 
(Light  was  her  accent,  yet  she  sighed,) 
"  Yet  is  this  mossy  rock  to  me 
Worth  splendid  chair  and  canopy ; 
Nor  would  my  footstep  spring  more  gay 
In  courtly  dance  than  blithe  strathspey, 
Nor  half  so  pleased  mine  ear  incline 
To  royal  minstrel's  lay  as  thine ; 
And  then  for  suitors  proud  and  high, 
To  bend  before  my  conquering  eye, 
Thou,  flattering  bard  !  thyself  wilt  say, 
That  grim  Sir  Roderick  owns  its  sway. 
The  Saxon  scourge,  Clan- Alpine's  pride, 
The  terror  of  Loch- Lomond's  side, 
Would,  at  my  suit,  thou  know'st,  delay 
A  Lennox  foray — for  a  day." 

XII. 

The  ancient  bard  his  glee  repressed  : 

"  111  hast  thou  chosen  theme  for  jest ! 

For  who,  through  all  this  western  wild, 

Named  black  Sir  Roderick  e'er,  and  smiled  ? 

In  Holy- Rood  a  knight  he  slew  -,-f- 

I  saw,  when  back  the  dirk  he  drew, 

Courtiers  give  place  before  the  stride 

Of  the  undaunted  homicide  ; 

And  since,  though  outlawed,  hath  his  hand 

Pull  sternly  kept  his  mountain  land. 

•  The  well-known  cognizance  of  the  Douglas  family. 

t  This  was  no  uncommon  occurrence  in  the  court  of  Scotland ; 
and  even  the  royal  presence  scarcely  restrained  the  ferocious  feuds 
•which  were  the  perpetual  source  of  bloodshed  auioiu  the  Scottish 


296        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  It 

Who  else  dared  give — ah  !  woe  the  day, 

That  I  such  hated  truth  should  say — 

The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 

Disowned  by  every  noble  peer, 

Even  the  rude  refuge  we  have  here 

Alas,  this  wild  marauding  chief 

Alone  might  hazard  our  relief, 

And  now  thy  maiden  charms  expand, 

Looks  for  his  guerdon  in  thy  hand ; 

Full  soon  may  dispensation  sought, 

To  back  his  suit,  from  Rome  be  brought. 

Then,  though  an  exile  on  the  hill, 

Thy  father,  as  the  Douglas,  still 

Be  held  in  reverence  and  fear. 

But  though  to  Roderick  thou'rt  so  dear, 

That  thou  might'st  guide  with  silken  thread 

Slave  of  thy  will,  this  chieftain  dread ; 

Yet,  oh  loved  maid,  thy  mirth  refrain ! 

Thy  hand  is  on  a  lion's  mane." 


"  Minstrel,"  the  maid  replied,  and  high 
Her  father's  soul  glanced  from  her  eye, 
"  My  debts  to  Roderick's  house  I  know : 
All  that  a  mother  could  bestow, 
To  Lady  Margaret's  care  I  owe, 
Since  first  an  orphan  in  the  wild 
She  sorrowed  o'er  her  sister's  child 
To  her  brave  chieftain  son,  from  ire 
Of  Scotland's  king  who  shrouds  my  sire, 
A  deeper,  holier  debt  is  owed ; 
And,  could  I  pay  it  with  my  blood, 
Allan  !  Sir  Roderick  should  command 
My  blood,  my  life— but  not  my  hand. 
Rather  will  Ellen  Douglas  dwell 
A  votaress  in  Maronan  s  cell  ;* 
Rather  through  realms  beyond  the  sea, 
Seeking  the  world's  cold  charity, 
Where  ne'er  was  spoke  a  Scottish  word, 
And  ne'er  the  name  of  Douglas  heard, 

*  The  parish  of  Kilmaronock,  at  the  eastern  extremity  of  Loch- 
Lonioud,  derives  its  name  from  a.  cell  or  chapel,  dedicated  to  Saint 
Maronoch,  or  Marouac,  about  whose  sauctity  very  little  is  now 
remembered. 


CAIsTO  IL]        THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.  297 

An  outcast  pilgrim  -will  she  rove, 
Thau  wed  the  man  shb  cannot  love. 

XIV. 

"Thou  shak'st,  good  friend,  thy  tresses  grey — 

That  pleading  look,  what  can  it  say 

But  what  I  own  ? — I  grant  him  brave, 

But  wild  as  Bracklinn's  thundering  wave  ;* 

And  generou? — save  vindictive  mood, 

Or  jealous  transport  chafe  his  Mood : 

I  grant  him  true  to  friendly  band, 

As  his  claymore  is  to  his  hand  : 

But  oh  !  that  very  blade  of  steel 

More  mercy  for  a  foe  would  feel : 

I  grant  him  liberal,  to  fiing 

Among  his  clan  the  wealth  they  bring, 

When  back  by  lake  and  glen  they  wind, 

And  in  the  Lowland  leave  behind, 

Where  once  some  pleasant  hamlet  stood, 

A  mass  of  ashes  slaked  with  blood. 

The  hand,  that  for  my  father  fought, 

I  honour,  as  his  daughter  ought ; 

But  can  I  clasp  it  recking  red, 

From  peasants  slaughtered  in  their  shed? 

No  !  wildly  while  his  virtues  •rleam, 

They  make  his  passions  aarker  seem, 

And  flash  along  his  spirit  high, 

Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

Whi!  e  yet  a  child — and  children  know, 

Instinctive  taught,  the  friend  and  foe — 

1  shuddered  at  his  brow  of  gloom, 

His  shadowy  plaid,  and  sable  plume ; 

A  maiden  grown,  I  ill  could  bear 

His  haughty  mien  and  lordly  air  ; 

But,  if  thou  join'st  a  suitor's  claim, 

In  serious  mood,  to  Roderick's  name, 

I  thrill  with  anguish !  or,  if  e'er 

A  Douglas  knew  the  word,  with  fear. 

To  change  such  odious  theme  were  best — 

What  think' st  thou  of  our  stranger  guest  ?" 

'  »  This  a  a  beautiful  cascade  made  at  a  place  palled  the  Bridge  of 
Bracklinn,  by  a  mountain  stream  called  the  Kcltie,  about  a  mile 
from  the  Tillage  of  CaUaader,  in  Menteith. 

•  3 


298  THE  LIDY  OP  THE  LAKE.          [CANTO  tt 

XV. 

"  What  think  I  of  him  ? — woe  the  while 

That  brought  such  wanderer  to  our  isle ! 

Thy  father's  battle-brand,  of  yore 

For  Tine-man  forged  by  fairy  lore,* 

What  time  he  leagued,  no  longer  foes, 

His  Border  spears  with  Hotspur's  bows, 

Did,  self  unscabbarded,  foreshow 

The  footstep  of  a  secret  foe.'f' 

If  courtly  spy,  and  harboured  here, 

What  may  we  for  the  Douglas  fear? 

What  for  this  island,  deemed  of  old 

Clan- Alpine's  last  and  surest  hold  ? 

If  neither  spy  nor  foe,  I  pray 

What  yet  may  jealous  Roderick  say ! 

— Nay,  wave  not  thy  disdainful  head  ! 

Bethink  thee  of  the  discord  dread, 

That  kindled  when  at  Beltane  game, 

Thou  ledd'st  the  danc»  with  Malcolm  Grseme ; 

Still,  though  thy  sire  the  peace  renewed, 

Smoulders  in  Roderick's  breast  the  feud ; 

Beware  ! — But  hark,  what  sounds  are  these  ? 

My  dull  ears  catch  no  faltering  breeze, 

No  weeping  birch,  nor  aspens  wake, 

Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake, 

Still  is  the  canna'sj  hoary  beard, 

Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard, 

And  hark  again  !  some  pipe  of  war 

Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." 

xvr. 

Far  up  the  lengthened  lake  were  spied 
Four  darkening  specks  upon  the  tide, 
That,  slow  enlarging  on  the  view, 
Four  manned  and  masted  barges  grew, 

*  Archibald,  the  third  Earl  of  Douglas,  was  so  unfortunate  in 
all  his  enterprises,  that  he  acquired  the  epithet  of  TINEMAN,  be- 
cause he  lined  or  lost  his  followers  in  every  battle  which  he  fought. 
He  was  made  prisoner  by  Hotspur  in  the  bloody  battle  of  Homil- 
don-hill  near  Wooler,  and  lie  after-.vards  Ml  at  the  battle  of  Verneuil 
with  the  flower  of  the  Scottish  chivalry,  then  serving  ;\9  auxiliaries 
in  France,  and  about  two  thousand  common  soldiers,  A.D.  l!ik 

t  It  was  a  superstitious  belief,  that  enchanted  swords  possessed 
the  power  of  leaping  out  of  their  scabbards,  to  indicate  the  presence 
of  an  enemy, 

I  Cotton-grass, 


CANTO  11.]   THE  IADT  OF  THE  LAKE.         299 

And  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 

Steered  full  upon  the  lonely  isle  ; 

The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  passed, 

And,  to  the  windward  as  they  cast, 

Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 

The  bold  Sir  Roderick's  bannered  pine. 

Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear, 

Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 

Now  might  you  see  the  tartans  brave, 

And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave ; 

Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise, 

As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies  ; 

See,  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke, 

The  wave  ascending  into  smoke  ; 

See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow, 

And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 

From  their  loud  chanters*  down,  and  sweep 

The  furrowed  bosom  of  the  deep, 

As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain, 

They  plied  the  ancient  Highland  strain. 

XVII. 

Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 

And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. •]* 

At  first  the  sounds,  by  distance  tame, 

Mellowed  along  the  waters  came, 

And,  lingering  long  by  cape  and  bay, 

Wailed  every  harsher  note  away ; 

Then,  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear, 

The  clan's  shrill  Gathering  they  could  hear; 

Th/>se  thrilling  sounds,  that  call  the  might 

Of  old  Clan- Alpine  to  the  tight. 

Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 

The  mustering  hundreds  shake  the  glen, 

And,  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread, 

The  battered  earth  returns  their  tread. 

»  The  drone  of  the  bagpipe. 

+  The  connoisseurs  iu  pipe-music  affect  to  discover  in  a  well- 
composed  pibroch,  the  imitative  sounds  of  march,  conflict,  flight, 
pursuit,  and  all  the  "current  of  a  heady  fight."  It  began  with  a 
irave  motion,  resembling  a  march  ;  then  gradually  quickened  into 
the  onset ;  ran  off  with  noisy  contusion,  ami  turbulent  rapidity,  to 
imitate  the  conflict  and  pursuit ;  then  •welted  into  a  few  nourishes 
of  triumphant  joy ;  and  perhaps  cloned  with  the  wild  and  slow 
M'ailings  of  a  funeral  procession. 


soo 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.       t CANTO  11 


Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Expressed  their  merry  marching  on, 
Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose, 
With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows  j 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward, 
As  broad-sword  upon  target  jarred ; 
And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 
Condensed,  the  battle  yelled  amain  ; 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout, 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout, 
And  bursts  of  triumph,  to  declare 
Clan-Alpine's  conquest — all  were  there. 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain ;  but  slow, 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolonged  and  low, 
And  changed  the  conquering  clarion  swell, 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 
XVIII. 

The  war-pipes  ceased  ;  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  stiil ; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again, 
While  loud  an,  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  Chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar, 
With  measured  sweep  the  burthen  bore, 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine,  ho  !  iro  !" 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  rowed, 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flowed. 


BOAT  SONG. 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honoured  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green  Pine ! 
Long  may  the  Tree  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gaily  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  highland  glen 


CA7ITO  n.]        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  301 

Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  P'* 
Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf  on  the 

mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan- Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 

Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 

Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 

Echo  his  praise  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !" 

XX. 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Frain, 
And  Banachar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch- Lomond  lie  dead  on  her  side.^ 

Widow  and  Saxcn  maid 

Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan- Alpine  with  fear  and  •with  woe ; 

Lennox  and  Leven-glen 

Shake  when  they  hear  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  P* 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  ever-green  Pine  ! 
Oh  !  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands, 

Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine ! 

*  Besides  his  ordinary  name  and  surname,  which  were  chiefly 
used  in  his  intercourse  with  the  Lowlands,  every  Highland  chief 
had  an  epithet  expressive  of  his  patriarchal  dignity  as  head  of  the 
clan,  and  commonly  another  peculiar  to  himself,  which  distinguish- 
ed him  from  the  chieftains  of  the  same  race.  This  was  sometimes 
derived  from  complexion,  as  dhu  or  ray ;  sometimes  from  size,  as 
bey  or  mare;  at  other  times,  from  some  particular  exploit,  or  from 
some  peculiarity  of  habit  or  appearance.  The  line  of  the  text 
therefore  signifies, 

Black  Roderick,  the  descendant  of  Alpine. 
+  The  Lennox,  as  the  district  is  called  which  encircles  the  lower 
extremity  of  Loch- Lomond,  was  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  incur- 
sions of  the  mountaineers  who  inhabited  the  inaccessible  fastnesses 
at  the  upper  end  of  Oie  !»ke,  and  the  neighbouring  district  of  Loch- 
Katrine.  These  were  often  marked  by  circumstances  of  great 
ferocity. 


302         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  It 

Oil  that  some  seedling  gem, 

Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honoured  and  blessed  in  their  shadow  might  grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 

Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dim,  ho  I  ieroe  1" 


With  all  her  joyful  female  band, 

Had  Lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand. 

Loose  on  the  breeze  their  tresses  ilew, 

And  high  their  snowy  arms  they  threw, 

As  echoing  back  with  shrill  acclaim 

And  chorus  wild  the  chieftain's  name ; 

While,  prompt  to  please,  with  mother's  art, 

The  darling  passion  of  his  heart, 

The  Dame  called  Ellen  to  the  strand, 

To  greet  her  kinsman  ere  he  land ; 

"  Come,  loiterer,  come  !  a  Douglas  thou, 

And  shun  to  wreathe  a  victor's  brow?" 

Reluctantly  and  slow,  the  maid 

The  unwelcome  summoning  obeyed, 

And,  when  a  distant  bugle  rung, 

In  the  mid-path  aside  she  sprung: 

"  List,  Allan-bane  I/rom  mainland  cast, 

I  hear  my  father's  signal  blast. 

Be  ours,"  she  cried,  "  the  skiff  to  guide, 

And  waft  him  from  the  mountain  side." 

Then,  like  a  sunbeam  swift  and  bright, 

She  darted  to  her  shallop  light 

And,  eagerly  while  Roderick  scanned, 

For  her  dear  form,  his  mother's  band, 

The  islet  far  behind  her  lay, 

And  she  had  landed  in  the  bay. 

XXII. 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given, 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven; 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek, 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 


CANTO  II.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        303 

'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head ! 
And  as  the  Douglas  to  his  breast 
His  darling  Ellen  closely  pressed, 
Such  holy  drops  her  tresses  steep'd, 
Though  'twas  an  hero's  eye  that  weep'd. 
Nor  while  on  Ellen's  faltering  tongue 
Her  filial  •welcomes  crowded  hung, 
Marked  she,  that  fear  (affection's  proof) 
Still  held  a  graceful  youth  aloof; 
No !  not  till  Douglas  named  his  name, 
Although  the  youth  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 

xxin. 

Allan,  with  wistful  look  the  while, 

Marked  Roderick  landing  on  the  isle; 

His  master  piteously  he  eyed, 

Then  gazed  upon  the  chieftain's  pride, 

Then  dashed,  with  hasty  hand,  away 

From  his  dimmed  eye  the  gathering  spray; 

And  Douglas,  as  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  shoulder,  kindly  said, 

"  Canst  thou,  young  friend,  no  meaning  spy 

In  my  poor  follower's  glistening  eye? 

I'll  tell  thee  : — he  recalls  the  day, 

When  in  my  praise  he  led  the  lay 
CTer  the  arched  gate  of  Bothwell  proud, 

While  many  a  minstrel  answered  loud, 
When  Percy's  Norman  pennon,  won 
In  bloody  field,  before  me  shone, 
And  twice  ten  knights,  the  least  a  name 
As  mighty  as  yon  chief  may  claim, 
Gracing  my  pomp,  behind  me  came. 
Yet  trust  me,  Malcolm,  not  so  proud 
Was  I  of  all  that  marshalled  crowd, 
Though  the  waned  crescent  owned  my  might, 
And  m  my  train  trooped  lord  and  knight, 
Though  Blantyre  hymned  her  holiest  lays, 
And  Bothwell's  bards  flung  back  my  praise, 
As  when  this  old  man's  silent  tear, 
And  this  poor  maid's  affection  dear, 
A  welcome  give  more  kind  and  true 
Than  aught  my  better  fortunes  knew. 


304  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        [CANTO  II 

Forgive,  my  friend,  a  father's  boast; 
Oh  !  it  out-beggars  all  I  lost !" 


Delightful  praise  ! — like  summer  rose, 
That  brighter  in  the  dew-drop  glows, 
The  bashful  maiden's  cheek  appeared  — 
For  Douglas  spoke,  and  Malcolm  heard. 
The  Hush  of  shame-faced  joy  to  hide, 
The  hounds,  the  hawk,  her  cares  divide : 
The  loved  caresses  of  the  maid 
The  dogs  with  crouch  and  whimper  paid ; 
And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 
The  falcon  took  his  favourite  stand, 
Closed  his  dark  wing,  relaxed  his  eye, 
Nor,  though  unhooded,  sought  to  lly. 
And  trust,  while  in  such  guise  she  stood, 
Like  fabled  Goddess  of  the  >',\.ml, 
That  if  a  father's  partial  thought 
O'erweighed  her  worth  and  beauty  aught, 
Well  might  the  lover's  judgment  fail, 
To  balance  with  a  juster  scale  ; 
For  with  each  secret  glance  he  stole, 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 

XXV. 

Of  stature  fair,  and  slender  frame. 
But  firmly  knit,  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 
The  belted  plaid  and  tartan  Lose 
Did  ne'er  more  graceful  limlc  disclose  ; 
His  flaxen  hair,  of  sunny  hue, 
Curled  closely  round  his  bonnet  blue ; 
Trained  to  the  chase,  his  eofjt  eye 
The  ptarmigan  in  snow  could  spy ; 
Each  pass,  by  mountain,  lake,  and  heath, 
He  knew,  through  Lennox  and  Menteith ; 
Vain  was  the  bound  of  dark- brown  doe, 
When  Malcolm  bent  his  sounding  bow% 
And  scarce  that  doe,  though  winged  with  fear, 
Outstripped  in  speed  the  mountaineer ; 
Right  up  Ben- Lomond  could  he  press, 
And  not  a  sob  his  toil  confess 


CANTO  II.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        305 

His  form  accorded  with  a  mind 
Lively  and  ardent,  frank  and  kind ; 
A  blither  heart,  till  Ellen  came, 
Did  never  love  nor  sorrow  tame  ; 
It  danced  as  lightsome  in  his  breast, 
As  played  the  feather  on  his  crest. 
Yet  friends,  who  nearest  knew  the  youth, 
His  scorn  of  wrong,  his  zeal  for  truth, 
And  bards,  who  saw  his  features  bold, 
When  kindled  by  the  tales  of  old, 
Said,  were  that  youth  to  manhood  grown, 
Not  long  should  Roderick  Dhu's  renown 
Be  foremost  voiced  by  mountain  fame, 
But  quail  to  that  of  Malcolm  Graeme. 

XXVI. 

Now  back  they  wend  their  watery  way, 
And,  "  Oh  my  sire  !"  did  Ellen  say, 
"Why  urge  thy  chase  ?o  far  astray? 
And  why  so  late  retimed?  And  why" — 
The  rest  was  in  her  speaking  eye. 
"  My  child,  t  le  chase  I  follow  far, 
"Pis  mimicry  of  noble  war ; 
And  with  that  gallant  pastime  reft 
Were  all  of  Douglas  I  have  left. 
I  met  young  Malcolm  as  I  strayed 
Far  eastward,  in  Glenfinlas'  shade, 
Nor  strayed  I  safe ;  for,  all  around, 
Hunters  and  horsemen  scoured  the  ground. 
This  youth,  though  still  a  royal  ward, 
Risked  life  and  land  to  be  my  guard, 
And  through  the  passes  of  the  wood 
Guided  my  steps  not  unpursued ; 
And  Roderick  shall  his  welcome  make, 
Despite  old  spleen,  for  Douglas'  sake. 
Then  must  he  seek  Strath- Endrick  glen, 
Nor  peril  aught  for  me  agen." 

XXVII. 

Sir  Roderick,  who  to  meet  them  came, 
Reddened  at  sight  of  Malcolm  Graeme, 
Yet,  nor  in  action,  word,  or  eye, 
Failed  aught  in  hospitality. 


306        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  II. 

In  talk  and  sport  they  whiled  away 
The  morning  of  that  summer  day; 
But  at  high  noon  a  courier  light 
Held  secret  parley  with  the  knight, 
Whose  moody  aspect  soon  declared, 
That  evil  were  the  news  he  heard. 
Deep  thought  seemed  toiling  in  his  head ; 
Yet  was  the  evening  banquet  made, 
Ere  he  assembled  round  the  flame, 
His  mother,  Douglas,  and  the  Graeme 
And  Ellen  too ;  then  cast  around 
His  eyes,  then  fixed  them  on  the  ground, 
As  studying  phrase  that  might  avail 
Best  to  convey  unpleasant  tale. 
Long  with  his  dagger's  hilt  he  played, 
Then  raised  his  haughty  brow,  and  said  : — 

XXVIII. 

"  Short  be  my  speech  ;  nor  time  affords, 

Nor  my  plain  temper,  glozing  words. 

Kinsman  and  father — if  such  name 

Douglas  vouchsafe  to  Roderick's  claim  ; 

Mine  honoured  mother  ;  Ellen— why, 

My  cousin,  turn  away  thine  eye? 

And  Graeme ;  in  whom  I  hope  to  know 

Full  soon  a  noble  friend  or  foe, 

When  age  shall  give  thee  thy  command, 

And  leading  in  thy  native  land — 

List  all !  The  King's  vindictive  pride 

Boasts  to  have  tamed  the  Border-side, 

Where  chiefs,  with  hound  and  hawk  who  came 

To  share  their  monarch's  sylvan  game, 

Themselves  in  bloody  toils  were  snared, 

And  when  the  banquet  they  prepared, 

*  In  1529,  James  V.,  determined  to  extirpate  the  Border  rnbbert, 
who,  during  his  minority,  had  committed  many  excesses,  assembled 

nobility  and  their  followers,  who  were  directed  to  bring  their 
hawks  and  dogs  with  them,  that  the  monarch  miicht  refresh  him- 
«elf  with  sport  during  the  intervals  of  military  execution.  With 
this  array  he  swept  through  Ettricke  forest,  hang-ed  over  the  gate 
of  his  own  castle  Piers  Cockburn  of  Henderland,  and  cnuscd  Adam 
Scott  of  Tushielaw,  who  was  distinguished  bv  the  title  ot  King  of 
the  Border,  and  the  noted  John  Armstrong  r>(  Gilnockie,  to  be  ex- 
ecuted. The  effect  of  this  severity  was  such,  that,  as  the  vulgar 
expressed  it,  "  the  rush  bush  kept  the  oow." 


CANTO  n.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        307 

And  -wide  their  loyal  portals  flung, 

O'er  their  own  gateway  struggling  hung. 

Loud  cries  their  blood  from  Meggat's  mead, 

From  Yarrow  braes,  and  banks  of  Tweed, 

Where  the  lone  streams  of  Ettricke  glide, 

And  from  the  silver  Teviot's  side ; 

The  dales,  where  martial  clans  did  ride, 

Are  now  one  sheep-walk  waste  and  wide. 

This  tyrant  of  the  Scottish  throne, 

So  faithless,  and  so  ruthless  known, 

Now  hither  comes ;  his  end  the  same, 

The  same  pretext  of  sylvan  game. 

What  grace  for  Highland  chiefs  judge  ye, 

By  fate  of  Border  chivalry.* 

Yet  more ;  amid  Glenfinlas  green, 

Douglas,  thy  stately  form  was  seen. 

This  by  espial  sure  I  know : 

Your  counsel  in  the  straight  I  show." 


Ellen  and  Margaret  fearfully 

Sought  comfort  in  each  other's  eye, 

Then  turned  their  ghastly  look,  each  one, 

This  to  her  sire,  that  to  her  son. 

The  hasty  colour  went  and  came 

In  the  bold  cheek  of  Malcolm  Graeme ; 

But,  from  his  glance  it  well  appeared, 

'Twas  but  for  Ellen  that  he  feared  ; 

While  sorrowful,  but  undismay'd. 

The  Douglas  thus  his  counsel  said:— 

"  Brave  Roderick,  though  the  tempest  roar, 

It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er ; 

Nor  will  I  here  remain  an  hour, 

To  draw  the  lightning  on  thy  bower ; 

For  well  thou  know'st,  at  this  grey  head 

The  royal  bolt  were  fiercest  sped. 

For  thee,  who,  at  thy  King's  command, 

Canst  aid  him  with  a  gallant  band, 

»  James  was,  in  fact,  attentive  to  restrain  rapine  and  feudal  op- 
pression not  only  up.-n  the  Border,  but  also  in  the  highlands  and 
the  isles,  ninny  of  the  chief  men  of  which  he  detained  as  hostages 
for  toe  behariour  of  their  vassals. 


308       THK  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  n. 

Submission,  homage,  humbled  pride, 
Shall  turn  the  Monarch's  wrath  aside. 
Poor  remnants  of  the  Bleeding  Heart, 
Ellen  and  I  will  seek,  apart, 
The  refuge  of  some  forest  cell ; 
There,  like  the  hunted  quarry,  dwell, 
Till,  on  the  mountain  and  the  moor, 
The  stern  pursuit  be  passed  and  o'er." 


"  No,  by  mine  honour  !"  Roderick  said, 

"  So  help  me  heaven,  and  my  good  blade  ! 

N  o,  never !  Blasted  be  yon  pine, 

My  fathers'  ancient  crest,  and  mine, 

If  from  its  shade  in  danger  part 

The  lineage  of  the  Bleeding  Heart ! 

Hear  my  blunt  speech.     Grant  me  this  maid 

To  wife,  thy  counsel  to  mine  aid ; 

To  Douglas,  leagued  with  Roderick  Dhu, 

Will  friends  and  allies  flock  enow ; 

Like  cause  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  grief, 

Will  bind  to  us  each  Western  Chief. 

When  the  loud  pipes  my  bridal  tell, 

The  Links  of  Forth  shall  hear  the  knell, 

The  guards  shall  start  in  Stirling's  porch ; 

And  when  I  light  the  nuptial  torch, 

A  thousand  villages  in  flames, 

Shall  scare  the  slumbers  of  King  James. 

— Nay,  Ellen,  blench  not  thus  away, 

And,  mother,  cease  these  sighs,  I  pray; 

I  meant  not  all  my  heat  might  say. 

Small  need  of  inroad,  or  of  iight, 

When  the  sage  Douglas  may  unite 

Each  mountain  clan  in  friendly  band,       tih^; 

To  guard  the  passes  of  their  land, 

Till  the  foiled  King,  from  pathless  glen, 

Shall  bootless  turn  him  home  agen." 

XXXI. 

.There  are  who  have,  at  midnight  hour, 
In  slumber  scaled  a  dizzy  tower. 
And,  on  the  verge  that  beetled  o'er 
The  ocean-tide's  incessant  roar, 


CANTO  EL]       THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  309 

Dreamed  calmly  out  their  dangerous  dream, 

Till  wakened  by  the  morning  beam ; 

When,  dazzled  by  the  eastern  glow, 

Such  startler  cast  his  glance  below, 

And  saw  unmeasured  depth  around, 

And  heard  unintermitted  sound, 

And  thought  the  battled  fence  so  frail, 

It  waved  like  cobweb  in  the  gale ; 

Amid  his  senses'  giddy  wheel, 

Did  he  not  desperate  impulse  feel, 

Headlong  to  plunge  himself  below, 

And  meet  the  worst  his  fears  foreshow  ! 

Thus,  Ellen,  dizzy  and  astound, 

As  sudden  ruin  yawned  around, 

By  crossing  terrors  wildly  tossed, 

Still  fjr  the  Douglas  fearing  most, 

Could  scarce  the  desperate  thought  withstand, 

To  buy  his  safety  with  her  hand. 


Such  purpose  dread  could  Malcolm  spy 
In  Ellen's  quivering  lip  and  eye, 
And  eager  rose  to  speak — but  ere 
His  tongue  could  hurry  forth  his  fear, 
Had  Douglas  marked  the  hectic  strife, 
Where  death  seemed  combating  with  life  ; 
For  to  her  cheek,  in  feverish  flood, 
One  instant  rushed  the  throbbing  blood 
Then  ebbing  back,  with  sudden  swa/, 
Left  its      mam  as  wan  as  clay. 
"  Rodf          enough !  enough !"  he  cried, 
"M_         _,   .er  cannot  be  thy  bride; 
Not  that  the  blush  to  wooer  dear, 
Nor  paleness  that  of  maiden  fear. 
It  may  not  be — forgive  her,  chief, 
Nor  hazard  aught  for  our  relief. 
Against  his  sovereign,  Douglas  ne'er 
Will  level  a  rebellious  spear. 
'Twas  1  that  taught  his  youthful  hand 
To  rein  a  steed  and  wield  a  brand. 
I  see  him  yet,  the  princely  boy! 
Not  Ellen  more  my  pride  and  joy; 


310         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  II. 

I  love  Mm  still,  despite  my  -wrongs, 
By  hasty  wrath,  and  slanderous  tongues. 
Oh  seek  the  grace  you  well  may  find, 
Without  a  cause  to  mine  combined." 

XX     III. 

Twice  through  the  hall  tne  Chieftain  strode, 
The  waving  of  his  tartans  broad, 
And  darkened  brow,  where  wounded  pride 
With  ire  and  disappointment  vied, 
Seemed,  by  the  torch's  gloomy  light, 
Like  the  ill  Dsemon  of  the  night, 
Stooping  his  pinions'  shadowy  sway 
Upon  the  nighted  pilgrim's  way: 
But,  unrequited  Love !  thy  dart 
Plunged  deepest  its  envenomed  smart, 
And  Roderick,  with  thine  anguish  stung, 
At  length  the  hand  of  Douglas  wrung, 
While  eyes,  that  mocked  at  tears  before, 
With  bitter  drops  were  running  o'er. 
The  death-pangs  of  long-cherished  hope 
Scarce  in  that  ample  breast  had  scope, 
But,  struggling  with  his  spirit  proud, 
Convulsive  heaved  its  chequered  shroud, 
While  every  sob — so  mute  were  all — • 
Was  heard  distinctly  through  the  hall. 
The  son's  despair,  the  mother's  look, 
111  might  the  gentle  Ellen  brook; 
She  rose,  and  to  her  side  there  came, 
To  aid  her  parting  steps,  the  Graeme. 

XXXIV. 

Then  Roderick  from  the  Douglas  broke — 
As  flashes  flame  through  sable  smoke, 
Kindling  its  wreaths,  long,  dark,  and  low, 
To  one  broad  blaze  of  ruddy  glow, 
So  the  deep  anguish  of  despair 
Burst,  in  fierce  jealousy,  to  air. 
With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 
On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid : — 
"  Back,  beardless  boy !"  he  sternly  said, 
"  Back,  minion  !  hold'st  thou  thus  at  naught 
The  lesson  I  so  lately  taught? 


CANTO  IL]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         311 

This  roof,  the  Douglas,  and  that  maid, 
Thank  thou  for  punishment  delayed." 
Eager  as  greyhound  on  his  game, 
Fiercely  with  Roderick  grappled  Grseme. 
"Perish  my  name,  if  aught  afford 
Its  chieftain  safety,  save  his  sword!" 
Thus  as  they  strove,  their  desperate  hand 
Griped  to  the  dagger  or  the  brand, 
And  death  had  been  —  but  Douglas  rose, 
And  thrust  between  the  struggling  foes 
His  giant  strength:  —  "Chieftains,  forego! 
I  hold  the  first  who  strikes,  my  foe, 
Madmen,  forbear  your  frantic  jar! 
What  !  is  the  Douglas  fallen  so  far, 
His  daughter's  hand  is  deemed  the  spoil 
Of  such  dishonourable  broil.1" 
Sullen  and  slowly,  they  unclasp, 
As  struck  with  shame,  their  desperate  grasp, 
And  each  upon  his  rival  glared, 
With  foot  advanced,  and  blade  half  bared. 

XXXV. 

Ere  yet  the  brands  aloft  were  flung, 
Margaret  on  Roderick's  mantle  hung, 
And  Malcolm  heard  his  Ellen's  scream, 
As  faltered  through  terrific  dream. 
Then  Roderick  plunged  in  sheath  his  sword, 
And  veiled  his  wrath  in  scornful  word. 
"Rest  safe  till  morning;  pity  'twere 
Such  cheek  should  feel  the  midnight  air!* 
Then  may'st  thou  to  James  Stuart  tell, 
Roderick  will  keep  the  lake  and  fell,  ' 
Nor  lackey,  with  his  free-born  clan, 
The  pageant  pomp  of  earthly  man. 
More  would  he  of  Clan-  Alpine  know, 
Thou  canst  our  strength  and  passes  show. 
Malise,  what  ho?"—  -his  henchmanf  came- 
"Give  our  safe  conduct  to  the  Greeme." 


vreT  respect  so  essential  to  the  character 

?^uia-tata«'  ™  th= 

t  This  officer  who  was  a  sort  of  secretary,  was  to  be  readv 
pon  aU  occasions,   to  venture  his  lite  in  d7fenceVf  his  master' 


312  THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.        [CA^TO  H 

Young  Malcolm  answered,  calm  and  bold, 
"  Fear  nothing  for  thy  favourite  hold. 
The  spot,  an  angel  deigned  to  grace, 
Is  blessed,  though  robbers  haunt  the  place ; 
Thy  churlish  courtesy  for  those 
Reserve,  who  fear  to  be  thy  foes. 
As  safe  to  me  ths  mountain  way 
At  midnight,  a.-,  in  blaze  of  day, 
Though,  with  his  boldest  at  his  back, 
Even  Roderick  Dhu  beset  the  track. 
Brave  Douglas — lovely  Ellen — nay, 
Nought  here  of  parting  will  I  say. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  lonesome  glen, 
So  secret,  but  we  meet  agen. 
Chieftain !  we  too  shall  find  an  hour," 
He  said,  and  left  the  sylvan  bower. 

XXXVI. 

Old  Allan  followed  to  the  strand, 
(Such  was  the  Douglas's  command,) 
And  anxious  told,  how,  on  the  morn, 
The  stern  Sir  Roderick  deep  had  sworn, 
The  Fiery  Cross  should  circle  o'er 
Dale,  glen,  and  valley,  down,  and  moor. 
Much  were  the  peril  to  the  Graeme, 
From  those  who  to  the  signal  came; 
Far  up  the  lake  'twere  safest  land, 
Himself  would  row  him  to  the  strand. 
He  gave  his  counsel  to  the  wind, 
While  Malcolm  did,  unheeding,  bind, 
Round  dirk  and  pouch  and  broad-sword  rolled, 
His  ample  plaid  in  tightened  fold, 
And  stripped  his  limbs  to  such  array 
As  best  might  suit  the  watery  way. 

XXXVIL 

Then  spoke  abrupt : — "  Farewell  to  thee, 
Pattern  of  old  fidelity !" 
The  minstrel's  hand  he  kindly  pressed, 
"  Oh !  could  I  point  a  place  of  rest ! 
My  sovereign  holds  in  ward  my  land, 
My  uncle  leads  my  vassal  band; 


CANTO  m.J   THE  LADY  OF  THK  LAKE.         313 

To  tame  his  foes,  his  friends  to  aid, 
Poor  Malcolm  has  but  heart  and  blade  : 
Yet,  if  there  be  one  faithful  Graeme, 
"Who  loves  the  Chieftain  of  his  name, 
Not  long  shall  honoured  Douglas  dwell, 
Like  hunted  stag,  in  mountain  cell: 
Nor,  ere  yon  pride-swollen  robber  dare — 
I  may  not  give  the  rest  to  air! — 
Tell  Roderick  Dhu,  I  owed  him  nought, 
Not  the  poor  service  of  a  boat, 
To  waft  me  to  yon  mountain  side;" 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide. 
Bold  o'er  the  flood  his  head  he  bore, 
And  stoutly  steered  him  from  the  shore; 
And  ^ Allan  strained  his  anxious  eye, 
Far  'mid  the  lake  his  form  to  spy. 
Darkening  acrot::-;  each  puny  wave, 
To  which  the  moon  her  silver  gave. 
Fast  as  the  cormorant  could  skim, 
The  swimmer  plied  each  active  limb; 
Then  landing  in  the  moonlight  dell, 
Loud  shouted  of  his  weal  to  tell. 
The  Minstrel  heard  the  far  halloo, 
And  jojful  from  the  shore  withdrew. 


CANTO  THIRD. 

€§e  ©steering. 


Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course.     The  race  of  yore 
Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 

And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  store 
Of  their  strange  ventures  happ'd  by  land  or  s-a, 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  1  e!  ' 

How  few,  all  weak  and  withered  of  th~eir  force 
Wait,  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity, 

Like  stranded  wrecks,  the  tide  returning  hoarse 

To  sweep  them  from  our  sight!  Time  rolls  his  cease- 
less course. 


314         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  HI. 

Yet  live  there  still  -who  can  remember  well, 

How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle  blew, 
Both  field  and  forest,  dingle,  cliff,  and  dell, 

And  solitary  heath,  the  signal  knew; 

And  fast  the  faithful  clan  around  him  drew, 
What  time  the  warning  note  was  keenly  wound, 

What  time  aloft  their  kindred  banner  flew, 
While    clamorous  war-pipes  yelled  the   gathering 

sound, 

And  while  the  Fiery  Cross  glanced,  like  a  meteor, 
round.* 

II. 

The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch-Katrine  blue ; 

Mildly  and  soft  the  west  m  breeze 

Just  kissed  the  lake,  just  stirred  the  trees, 

And  the  pleased  lake ,  like  maiden  coy, 

Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy; 

The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 

Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye. 

The  water  lily  to  the  light 

Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright ; 

The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 

Begemmed  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn; 

The  grey  mist  left  the  mountain  side, 

The  torrent  showed  its  glistening  pride; 

Invisible  in  flecked  sky, 

The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry; 

The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 

Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush ; 

»  When  a  chieftain  designed  to  summon  his  clan,  upon  any 
emergency,  he  slew  a  goat,  and  making  a  cross  of  any  light  wood, 
scared  its  extremities  in  the  fire,  and  extinguished  them  in  the 
blood  of  the  animal  This  was  called  the  Fiery  Cross,  and  also  the 
Crost  of  Shame,  because  disobedience  to  the  symbol  inferred  in- 
famy. It  was  passed  with  incredible  celerity  through  all  the  dis- 
trict which  owed  allrgiance  to  the  chief,  and  also  among  his  allies 
and  neighbours,  if  the  danger  was  common  to  them,  and  at  sight 
of  the  Fiery  Cross,  every  man,  from  sixteen  years  old  to  sixty, 
capable  of  bearing  arms,  was  obliged  instantly  to  repair,  in  his  best 
arms  and  accoutrements,  to  the  flace  of  rendezvous.  He  who 
faUed  to  appear,  suffered  the  extremities  of  fire  and  sword,  which 
were  emblematically  denounced  by  the  bloody  and  burned  marks 
upon  this  warlike  signal. 


CANTO  m.]   THE  LADY  OF  IHK  LA  KE.         315 

In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove, 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 

lit. 

No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest, 
Assuaged  the  storm  in  Roderick's  breast. 
"\\  itb  sheathed  broad-sword  in  his  hand, 
Abrupt  he  paced  the  islet  strand, 
And  eyed  the  rising  sun,  and  laid 
His  hand  on  his  impatient  blade. 
Beneath  a  rock,  his  vassals'  care 
Was  prompt  the  ritual  to  prepare, 
With  deep  and  deathful  meaning  fraught; 
For  such  Antiquity  had  taught 
Was  preface  meet,  ere  yet  abroad 
The  Cross  of  Fire  should  take  its  road. 
The  shrinking  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast; — 
Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw, 
As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Ben- venue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind, 
And  high  in  middle  heaven  reclined, 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 
Silenced  the  warblers  of  the  brake. 


A  heap  of  withered  boughs  was  piled, 
Of  juniper  and  rowan  wild, 
Mingled  with  shivers  from  the  oak, 
Bent  by  the  lightning's  recent  stroke. 
Brian  the  Hermit  by  it  stood, 
Barefooted,  in  his  frock  and  hood. 
His  grisled  beard  and  matted  hair 
Obscured  a  visage  of  despair; 
His  naked  arms  and  legs,  seamed  o'er, 
The  scars  of  frantic  penance  bore. 
That  Monk,  of  savage  form  and  face, 
The  impending  danger  of  his  race 
Had  drawn  from  deepest  solitude, 
Far  in  Benharrow's  bosom  rude. 
Not  his  the  mien  of  Christian  priest 
But  Druid's,  from  the  grave  released, 


316  THK  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.      [CA^TQ  III. 

Whose  hardened  heart  and  eye  might  brook 

On  human  sacrifice  to  look. 

And  much,  'twas  said,  of  heathen  lore 

Mixed  in  the  charms  he  muttered  o'er; 

The  hallowed  creed  gave  only  worse 

And  deadlier  emphasis  of  curse. 

No  peasant  sought  that  Hermit's  prayer, 

His  cave  the  pilgrim  shunned  v.-ith  care; 

The  eager  huntsman  knew  his  bound, 

And  in  mid  chase  called  off  his  hound; 

Or  if,  in  lonely  glen  or  strath, 

The  desert-dweller  met  his  path, 

He  prayed,  and  signed  the  cross  between, 

While  terror  took  devotion's  mien. 


Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  told.* 
His  mother  watched  a  midnight  fold, 
Built  deep  within  a  dreary  glen, 
Where  scattered  lay  the  bones  of  men, 
In  some  forgotten  battle  slain, 
And  bleached  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 
It  might  have  tamed  a  warrior's  heart, 
To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 
The  knot-grass  fettered  there  the  hand, 
Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band; 
Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone, 
That  bucklered  heart  to  fear  unknown, 
A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest, 
The  field- fare  framed  her  lowly  nest; 
There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime 
On  the  fleet  limbs  that  mocked  at  time; 
And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull, 
Still  wreathed  with  chaplet  flushed  and  full, 
For  heath-bell,  with  her  purple  bloom, 
Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume. 
All  night,  in  this  sad  glen,  the  maid 
Sate  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade : 
— She  said,  no  shepherd  sought  her  side, 
No  hunter's  hand  her  snood  untied, 

*  The  legend  which  follows  is  not  of  the  author's  invention, 
being  adopted  in  almost  every  particular,  from  the  geographical 
collections  made  by  the  laird  of  Macfarlaaa. 


CANTO  III]     THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  S17 

Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear:* 
Gone  *ras  her  maiden  glee  and  sport, 
Her  maiden  girdle  all  too  short, 
Nor  sought  she,  from  that  fatal  night, 
Or  holy  church  or  blessed  rite, 
But  locked  her  secret  in  her  breast, 
And  died  in  travail,  unconfessed. 

VI. 

Alone,  among  his  young  compeers, 

Was  Brian  from  his  infant  years; 

A  moody  and  heart-broken  boy, 

Estranged  from  sympathy  and  joy, 

Bearing  each  taunt  which  careless  tongue 

On  his  mysterious  lineage  flung. 

Whole  nights  he  spent  by  moonlight  pale, 

To  wood  and  stream  his  hap  to  waiL 

Till,  frantic,  he  as  truth  received 

What  of  his  birth  the  crowd  believed, 

And  sought,  in  mist  and  meteor  tire, 

To  meet  and  know  his  Phantom  Sire ! 

In  vain  to  soothe  his  wayward  fate, 

The  cloister  oped  her  pitying  gate ; 

In  vain,  the  learning  of  the  age 

Unclasped  the  sable-lettered  page ; 

Even  in  its  treasures  he  could  find 

Food  for  the  fever  of  his  mind. 

Eager  he  read  whatever  tells 

Of  magic,  cabala,  and  spells, 

And  every  dark  pursuit  allied 

To  curious  and  presumptuous  pride, 

Till,  with  fired  brain  and  nerves  o'erstrung, 

And  heart  with  mystic  horrors  wrong, 

Desperate  he  sought  Benharrow's  den, 

And  hid  him  from  the  haunts  of  men. 

*  The  mood,  or  ribband,  with  which  a  Scottish  bus  braided  hei 
hair,  had  an  emblematical  signification,  anil  applied  to  her  maiden 
character.  It  was  exchanged  T.>r  the  currA,  toy,  or  coif,  when  she 
passed,  by  marriage,  into  the  matron  stale.  But  if  the  damsel 
wait  so  unfortunate  as  to  lose  pr^tevxinns  to  the  name  'if  maiden, 
without  gaining  a  right  to  that  of  matron,  she  was  neither  per- 
mitted to  use  the  snood  nor  advanced  to  the  graver  dignity  of  the 
curcA. 


318         THE  LADT  OF  THE  LAKE.  [CANTO  HI. 
VII. 

The  desert  gave  him  visions  "wild, 

Such  as  might  suit  the  Spectre's  child. 

Where  with  black  cliffs  the  torrents  toil, 

He  watched  the  wheeling  eddies  boil, 

Till,  from  their  foam,  his  dazzled  eyes 

Beheld  the  river  demon  rise ; 

The  mountain  mist  took  form  and  limb 

Of  noontide  hag,  or  goblin  grim ; 

The  midnight  wind  came  wild  and  dread, 

Swelled  with  the  voices  of  the  dead 

Far  on  the  future  battle-heath 

His  eye  beheld  the  ranks  of  death  : 

Thus  the  lone  Seer,  from  mankind  hurled, 

Shaped  forth  a  disembodied  world. 

One  lingering  sympathy  of  mind 

Still  bound  him  to  the  mortal  kind ; 

The  only  parent  he  could  claim 

Of  ancient  Alpine's  lineage  came. 

Late  had  he  heard,  in  prophet's  dream, 

The  fatal  Ben-Shie's  boding  scream  ;* 

Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnight  blast, 

Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 

Along  Benharrow's  shingly  side, 

Where  mortal  horseman  ne'er  might  ride  ;•{• 

The  thunderbolt  had  cplit  the  pine — 

All  augur'd  ill  to  Alpine's  line. 

He  girt  his  loins,  and  came  to  show 

The  signals  of  impending  woe, 

And  now  stood  prompt  to  bless  or  ban, 

As  bade  the  Chieftain  of  his  clan. 

VIII. 

'Twas  all  prepared — and  from  the  rock, 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock 

*  Most  great  families  in  the  Highlands  were  supposed  to  have  a 
tutelar,  or  domestic  spirit,  either  of  male  or  female  appearance, 
who  took  an  interest  in  their  prosperity,  and  intimated,  by  iU 
waitings  any  approaching  disaster.  The  Beu-Shie  implies  the 
female  Fairy,  whose  lamentations  were  often  supposed  to  precede 
the  death  of  a  chieftain  of  particular  families. 

t  A  presage  of  this  kind  is  still  believed  to  announce  death  to 
the  ancient  highland  family  of  M'Lean  of  Lochbuy.  The  spirit  of 
an  ancestor  slain  in  battle  is  heard  to  gallop  along  a  stony  bank, 
and  then  to  ride  thrice  around  the  family  residence,  ringing  ti» 
fairy  bridle,  aud  thus  intimating  the  approaching  calamity. 


CA^TO  III.]      THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  319 

Before  the  kindling-  pi'.e  was  laid, 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 
Patient  the  sickening  victim  eyed 
The  life-blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide, 
Down  his  clogged  beard  and  shaggy  limb, 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer, 
A  slender  crosslet  framed  with  care. 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due  ; 
The  shaft  and  limbs  were  rods  of  yew, 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan- Alpine's  grave,* 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep, 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  Cross,  thus  formed,  he  held  on  high, 
With  wasted  hand  and  haggard  eye, 
And  strange  and  minglod  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke. 

IX. 

"  Woe  to  the  clansman,  who  shall  view 
This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew, 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 
Where  weep  the  heavens  their  holiest  dew 

On  Alpine's  dwelling  low! 
Deserter  of  his  Chieftain's  trust, 
He  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust, 
But  from  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust, 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  woe." 
He  paused — the  word  the  vassals  took, 
With  forward  step  and  fiery  look, 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook, 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook  ; 

And  first,  in  murmur  low, 
Then,  like  the  billow  in  his  course, 
That  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source, 
And  flings  to  shore  his  mustered  force, 
Burst,  with  loud  roar,  their  answer  hoarse, 

"  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  !" 

»  Inch-  Cailliach,  the  If'?  of  Nuns,  or  of  Old  Women,  is  a  most 
beautiful  island  at  the  1<  rer  extremity  of  Locb-I,omnnd.  The 
burial  ground  there  continues  to  be  used,  and  contains  the  family 
places  of  sepulture  of  several  families,  claiming  a  descent  from  the 
old  Scottish  King  Alpine. 


320  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.      [CANTO  IIL 

Ben-an's  grey  scalp  the  accents  knew, 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew, 
The  exulting  eagle  screamed  afar — 
They  knew  the  voice  of  Alpine's  war. 

x. 

The  shout  was  hushed  on  lake  and  fell, 
The  Monk  resumed  his  muttered  spell. 
Dismal  and  low  its  accents  came, 
The  while  he  scathed  the  Cross  with  flame ; 
And  the  few  words  that  reached  the  air, 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud  : — 
"  Woe  to  the  wretch,  who  fails  to  rear 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear ! 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear, 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 

A  kindred  fate  shall  know  ; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-A'pine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
While  maids  and  matrons  oa  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame, 

And  infamy  and  woe  !" 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goss-hawk's  whistle  on  the  hill, 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill, 
Mingled  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammered  slow  ; 
Answering,  with  imprecation  dread, 
"  Sunk  be  his  home  in  embers  red ! 
And  cursed  be  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head 

We  doom  to  want  and  woe  !" 
A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave! 
And  the  grey  pass  where  birches  wave, 

On  Beala-nam-bo. 

XI. 

Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew, 
And  hard  his  labouring  breath  he  drew, 
"While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hand, 
And  eyes  that  glowed  like  fiery  brand, 


CANTO  m.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         321 

He  meditated  curse  more  dread, 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head, 
Who  summoned  to  his  Chieftain's  aid. 
The  signal  saw  and  disobeyed. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood, 
He  quenched  among  the  bubbling  blood, 
And  as  again  the  sign  he  reared, 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard  : 
"  When  nits  this  Cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich- Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan, 
Burst  be  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed ! 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed 
May  ravens  tear  the  careless  eyes ! 
Wolves  make  the  coward  heart  their  prize ! 
As  sinks  that  blood-stream  in  the  earth, 
So  may  his  heart's-blood  drench  his  hearth! 
As  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark, 
Quench  thou  his  light,  Destruction  dark ! 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
Bought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside  f 
He  ceased  :  no  echo  gave  agen 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  Amen. 


Then  Roderick,  with  impatient  look, 
From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took  : 
"  Speed,  Malise,  speed  !"  he  said,  and  gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave; 
"  The  muster- place  be  Lanric  mead — 
Instant  the  time — speed,  Malise,  speed !" 
Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 
A  barge  across  Loch-Katrine  flew ; 
High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow ; 
So  rapidly  the  harge-men  row, 
The  hubbies,  where  they  launched  the  boat, 
VV  ere  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still, 
When  it  had  neared  the  mainland  hill ; 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fathoms  wide, 
When  lightly  bounded  to  Iht  land, 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 
Oil 


322 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.       [CANTO  UL 


XIII. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied.* 
Speed,  Malise,  speed !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 
Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast, 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest ; 
With  short  and  springing  footsteps  pass 
The  trembling  bog  and  false  morass  ; 
Across  the  brook  like  roebuck  bound, 
And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound ; 
The  crag  is  higa,  the  scaur  is  deep, 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap ; 
Parched  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now ; 
Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 
Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career ! 
The  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now 
Pursu'st  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 
Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 
With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race ; 
But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed 
Are  in  thy  course — Speed,  Malise,  speed  ! 


Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 

In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise ; 

From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown, 

They  poured  each  hardy  tenant  down. 

Nor  slacked  the  messenger  his  pace ; 

He  showed  the  sign,  he  named  the  place,  ' 

And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind, 

Left  clamour  and  surprise  behind. 

The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand, 

The  swarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand ; 

With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 

Left  in  the  half-cut  swathe  his  scythe ; 

The  herds  without  a  keeper  strayed, 

The  plough  was  in  raid-furrow  staid, 

»  The  brogue  or  shoe  of  the  Highlanders  is  made  of  half-dried 
leather,  with  holes  to  admit  and  let  out  the  water.  The  ancient 
buskin  was  still  ruder,  being  made  of  the  undressed  deer's  hide, 
with  the  hair  outwards,  a  circumstance  which  procured  the  High- 
landers the  well-known  epithet  of  redthankt. 


CANTO  III.]     THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  323 

The  falc'ner  tossed  his  hawk  away, 

The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay ; 

Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms, 

Each  son  of  Alpine  rushed  to  arms  ; 

So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 

Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 

Alas,  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 

Thy  hanks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear ! 

The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 

So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 

The  lark's  blithe  carol  from  the  cloud, 

Seems  for  the  scene  too  gaily  loud. 

xv. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  lake  is  past, 
Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last, 
And  peep,  like  moss-grown  rocks,  half  seen, 
Half  hidden  in  the  copse  so  green  ; 
There  may'st  thou  rest,  thy  labour' done, 
Their  Lord  shall  speed  the  signal  on. 
As  stoops  the  hawk  upon  his  prey, 
The  henchman  shot  him  down  the  way. 
— What  -woeful  accents  load  the  gale  ? 
The  funeral  yell,  the  female  wail ! 
A  gallant  hunter's  sport  is  o'er, 
A  valiant  warrior  fights  no  more. 
Who,  in  the  battle  or  the  chase, 
At  Roderick's  side  shall  fill  his  place  ! — 
Within  the  hall,  where  torch's  ray 
Supplies  the  excluded  beams  of  day, 
Lies  Duncan  on  his  lowly  bier, 
And  o'er  him  streams  his  widow's  tear. 
His  stripling  son  stands  mournful  by, 
His  youngest  weeps,  but  knows  not  why ; 
The  village  maids  and  matrons  round 
The  dismal  coronach*  resound. 

XVI. 
CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
«  The  Coronach  of ^tbe  Highlander.,  Wa>  a  wild  expression  of 

fort" bylhe  n"mrue"  °'er  <**•*>  °{* 


324         THE  LADV  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  III. 

Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  re-appearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory ; 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 
Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,* 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever ! 

XVII. 

See  Stumah,1)*  who,  the  bier  beside, 

His  master's  corpse  with  wonder  eyed — 

Poor  Stumah  !  whom  his  least  halloo 

Could  seud  like  lightning  o'er  the  dew, 

Bristles  his  crest,  and  points  his  ears, 

As  if  some  stranger  step  he  hears. 

'Tis  not  a  mourner's  muffled  tread, 

Who  comes  to  sorrow  o'er  the  dead, 

But  headlong  haste,  or  deadly  fear, 

Urge  the  precipitate  career. 

All  stand  aghast : — unheeding  all, 

The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall ! 

Before  the  dead  man's  bier  he  stood, 

Held  forth  the  Cross  besmeared  with  blood ! 

"  The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead ; 

Speed  forth  the  signal !  clansmen,  speed  P* 

*  Or  coiri.    The  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game  usually 
+  Faithful.    The  name  of  a  dog. 


CANTO  HI.]      THE  LADY  OF  THK  LAKB.  325 

XVIII. 

Angus,  the  heir  of  Duncan's  line,  _ 

Sprang  forth  and  seized  the  fatal  sign. 

In  haste  the  stripling  to  his  side 

His  father's  dirk  and  broad-sword  tied ; 

But  when  he  saw  his  mother's  eye 

Watch  him  in  speechless  agony, 

Back  to  her  opened  arms  he  flew, 

Pressed  on  her  lips  a  fond  adieu. 

"  Alas  !"  she  sohbed — "  and  yet  be  gone, 

And  speed  thee  forth,  like  Duncan's  son  ! 

One  look  he  cast  upon  the  bier, 

Dashed  from  his  eye  the  gathering  tear, 

Breathed  deep,  to  clear  his  labouring  breast, 

And  tossed  aloft  his  bonnet  crest, 

Then,  like  the  high-bred  colt  when  freed 

First  he  essays  his  tire  and  speed, 

He  vanished,  and  o'er  moor  and  moss 

Sped  forward  with  the  Fiery  Cross. 

Suspended  was  the  widow's  tear, 

While  yet  his  footsteps  she  could  hear ; 

And  when  she  marked  the  henchman's  eye 

Wet  with  unwonted  sympathy, 

u  Kinsman,"  she  said,  "  his  race  is  run, 

That  should  have  sped  thine  errand  on  ; 

The  oak  has  fallen— the  sapling  bough 

Is  all  Duncraggan's  shelter  now. 

Yet  trust  I  well,  his  duty  done, 

The  orphan's  God  will  guard  my  son. 

And  you,  in  many  a  danger  true, 

At  Duncan's  host  your  blades  that  drew, 

To  arms,  and  guard  that  orphan's  head ! 

Let  babes  and  women  waii  the  dead." 

Then  weapon-clan,  and  murtial  call, 

Resounded  through  the  funeral  hall, 

While  from  the  walls  the  attendant  band 

Snatched  sword  and  targe,  with  hurried  hand ; 

And  short  and  flitting  energy 

Glanced  from  the  mourner  s  sunken  eye, 

As  if  the  sounds  to  warrior  dear 

Might  rouse  her  Duncan  from  his  bier. 

But  faded  soon  that  borrowed  force; 

Grief  claimed  his  right,  and  tears  their  course. 


326 


THE  LADY  OF  TflE  LAKE.      [CANTO  TIL 


XIX. 

Benledi  saw  the  Cross  of  Fire, 
It  glanced  like  lightning  up  Strath-Ire. 
O'er  dale  and  hill  the  summons  Hew, 
Not  rest  nor  pause  young  Angus  knew ; 
The  tear  that'  gathered  in  his  eye, 
He  left  the  mountain  breeze  to  dry; 
Until,  where  Teith's  young  waters  roll, 
Betwixt  him  and  a  wooded  knoll, 
That  graced  the  sable  strath  with  green, 
The  chapel  of  Saint  Bride  was  seen. 
Swoln  was  the  stream,  remote  the  bridge, 
But  Angus  paused  not  on  the  edge ; 
Though  the  dark  waves  danced  dizzily, 
Though  reeled  his  sympathetic  eye, 
He  dashed  amid  the  torrent's  roar ; 
His  right  hand  high  the  crosslet  bore, 
His  left  the  pole-axe  grasped,  to  guide 
And  stay  his  footing  in  the  tide. 
He  stumbled  twice — the  foam  splashed  high, 
With  hoarser  swell  the  stream  raced  by ; 
And  had  he  fallen — for  ever  there, 
Farewell  Duncraggan's  orphan  heir  ! 
But  still,  as  if  in  parting  life, 
Firmer  he  grasped  the  Cross  of  strife, 
Until  the  opposing  bank  he  gained, 
And  up  the  chapel  pathway  strained. 

xx. 

A  blithesome  rout,  that  morning  tide, 
Had  sought  the  chapel  of  Saint  Bride. 
Her  troth  Tombea's  Mary  gave 
To  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
And,  issuing  from  the  Gothic  arch, 
The  bridal  now  resumed  their  march. 
In  rude,  but  glad  procession,  came 
Bonnetted  sire  and  coif-clad  dame ; 
And  plaided  youth,  with  jest  and  jeer, 
Which  snooded  maiden  would  not  hear; 
And  children,  that,  unwitting  why, 
Lent  the  gay  shout  their  shrilly  cry ; 
And  minstrels,  that  in  measures  vied 
Before  the  young  and  bonny  bride, 


CA?TTO  niO      THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  327 

Whose  downcast  eye  and  cheek  disclose 
The  tear  and  blush  of  morning  rose. 
With  virgin  step,  and  liashful  hand, 
She  held  the  kerchiefs  snowy  Land ; 
The  gallant  bridegroom,  by  her  side, 
Beheld  his  prize  with  victor's  pride, 
And  the  glad  mother  in  her  ear 
Was  closely  whispering  word  of  cheer. 


Who  meets  them  at  the  church-yard  gate  ? 
The  messenger  of  fear  and  fate ! 
Haste  in  his  hurried  accent  lies, 
And  grief  is  swimming  in  his  eyes. 
All  dripping  from  the  recent  flood, 
Panting  and  travtl-soiled  he  stood, 
The  fatal  sign  of  fire  and  sword 
Held  forth,  and  spoke  the  appointed  word : 
"  The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead ; 
Speed  forth  the  signal !  Norman,  speed !" 
And  must  he  change  so  soon  the  hand, 
Just  linked  to  his  by  holy  band, 
For  the  fell  cross  of  blood  and  brand  ? 
And  must  the  day,  so  blithe  that  rose, 
And  promised  rapture  in  the  close, 
Before  its  setting  hour,  divide 
The  bridegroom  from  the  plighted  bride  ? 
Oh  fatal  doom  ! — it  must !  it  must ! 
Clan- Alpine's  cause,  her  Chieftain's  trust, 
Her  summons  dread,  brooks  no  delay ; 
Stretch  to  the  race — away  !  away  ! 


Yet  slow  he  laid  his  plaid  aside, 
And,  lingering,  eyed  his  lovely  bride, 
Until  he  saw  the  starting  tear 
Speak  woe  he  might  not  stop  to  cheer ; 
Then,  trusting  not  a  second  look, 
In  haste  he  sped  him  up  the  brook, 
Nor  backward  glanced  till  on  the  heath 
Where  Lubnaig's  lake  supplies  the  Teith 
What  in  the  racer's  bosom  stirred? 
The  sickening  pang  of  hope  deferred, 


328         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  III. 

And  memory,  with  a  torturing  train 

Of  all  his  morning  visions  vain. 

Mingled  with  love's  impatience,  came 

The  manly  thirst  for  martial  fame ; 

The  stormy  joy  of  mountaineers, 

Ere  yet  they  rush  upon  the  spears ; 

And  zeal  for  clan  and  chieftain  burning, 

And  hope,  from  well-fought  field  returning, 

With  \var's  red  honours  on  his  crest, 

To  clasp  his  Mary  to  his  hreast. 

Stung  by  such  thoughts,  o'er  bank  and  brae, 

Like  fire  from  flint  he  glanced  away, 

While  high  resolve,  and  feeling  strong, 

Burst  into  voluntary  song. 


SONG. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken*  curtain  for  my  head, 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid  I 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary ! 
I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 
The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow 
I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan- Alpine  on  the  foe, 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary  ! 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ! 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary  ! 
And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  tweet  the  linnet  sing  repose 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary ! 

*  Bracken — Fern. 


CANTO  IIL]      THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKB. 


Not  faster  o'er  tfev  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze,* 
Rushing  in  conflagration  strong, 
Thy  deep  ra  vines  and  dells  along, 
Wrapping  thy  cliffs  in  purple  glow, 
And  reddening  the  dark  lakes  below  ; 
Nor  faster  speeds  it,  nor  so  far, 
As  o'er  thy  heaths  the  voice  of  war. 
The  signal  roused  to  martial  coil 
The  sullen  margin  of  Loch-Voil, 
Waked  still  Loch-Doine,  and  to  the  source 
Alarmed,  Balvaig,  thy  swampy  course  ; 
Thence  southward  turned  its  rapid  road 
Adown  Strath-Gartney's  valley  broad, 
Till  rose  in  arms  each  man  might  claim. 
A  portion  in  Clan-  Alpine's  name  ; 
From  the  grey  sire,  whose  trembling  hand 
Could  hardly  buckle  on  his  brand, 
To  the  raw  boy,  whose  shaft  and  bow 
Were  yet  scarce  terror  to  the  crow. 
Each  valley,  each  sequestered  glen, 
Mustered  its  little  horde  of  men, 
That  met  as  torrents  from  the  height, 
In  Highland  dale  their  streams  unite, 
Still  gathering,  as  they  pour  along, 
A  voice  more  loud,  a  tide  more  strong, 
Till  at  the  rendezvous  they  stood 
By  hundreds  prompt  for  blows  and  blood  ; 
Each  trained  to  arms  since  life  began, 
Owning  no  tie  but  to  his  clan, 
No  oath,  but  by  Ids  Chieftain's  hand,t 
No  law,  but  Roderick  Dhu's  command. 


That  summer  morn  had  Roderick  Dhu 
Surveyed  the  skirts  of  Ben- venue, 

The  heath  on  the  Scottish  moorlands  i«  oftra  set  on  fire,  that 
sheep  may  have  the  advantage  of  the  yonns;  Iwi 
ed  in  room  of  the  tough  old  h«ather  planU.    This  custom  pro- 
es  occasionally  the  most  beautiful  nocturnal  appearance,  suni- 

•  o  the  discharge  of  a  volcan<\ 

The  deep  and  implicit  respect  paid  by  the  highland  c!aii<m»n 
heir  chief,  rendered  this  both  a  ccimaou  and  a  solemn  uatu. 


330         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  111. 

And  sent  his  scouts  o'er  hill  and  heath, 

To  view  the  frontiers  of  Menteith. 

All  backward  came  with  news  of  truce ; 

Still  lay  each  martial  Grseme  and  Bruce, 

In  Rednock  courts  no  horsemen  wait, 

No  banner  waved  on  Cardross  gate, 

On  Duchray's  towers  no  beacon  shone, 

Nor  scared  the  herons  from  Loch-Con ; 

All  seemed  at  peace.     Now,  wot  ye  why 

The  Chieftain,  with  such  anxious  eye, 

Ere  to  the  muster  he  repair, 

This  western  frontier  scanned  with  care  ? — 

In  Ben-venue's  most  darksome  cleft, 

A  fair,  though  cruel  pledge  was  left ; 

For  Douglas,  to  his  promise  true, 

That  morning  from  the  isle  withdrew, 

And  in  a  deep  sequestered  dell 

Had  sought  a  low  and  lonely  cell. 

By  many  a  bard  in  Celtic  tongue, 

Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin*  been  sung ; 

A  softer  name  the  Saxon  gave, 

And  called  the  grot  the  Goblin-care. 


It  was  a  wild  and  strange  retreat, 
As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 
Thj  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Yawned  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast ; 
Its  trench  had  stayed  full  many  a  rock, 
Hurled  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 
From  Ben- venue's  grey  summit  wild, 
And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled, 
They  frowned  incumbent  o'er  the  spot, 
And  formed  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 
The  oak  and  birch,  with  mingled  shade, 
At  noontide  there  a  twilight  made, 

*  This  is  a  very  steep  and  most  romantic  hollow  in  the  moun- 
tain of  Ben-venue,  overhanging  the  south-eastern  extremity  of 
I,och-Katrine.  It  is  surrounded  with  stupendous  rocks,  and  over- 
shadowed with  birch  trees,  mingled  with  oaks,  the  spontaneous 
production  of  the  mountain,  even  where  its  cliffs  appear  denuded 
of  soil.  The  name  signifies,  the  den  of  the  shaggy  men,  and  tradi- 
tion has  ascribed  to  the  urtsA,  who  gives  name  to  the  cavern,  a 
figure  between  a  goat  and  a  man ;  iu  short,  precisely  that  of  the 
Qreciau  satyr. 


CANTO  IIL]        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  33 

Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 
Some  straggling  beam  on  cliff  or  stone, 
With  such  a  glimpse  as  prophet's  eye 
Gains  on  thy  depth,  Futurity. 
No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still, 
Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill ; 
But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake 
A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break, 
With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 
The  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 
Suspended  cliffs,  with  hideous  sway, 
Seemed  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  grey. 
From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung, 
In  such  the  wild  cat  leaves  ber  young; 
Yet  Douglas  and  his  daugliier  fair, 
Sought,  for  a  space,  their  safety  there. 
Grey  Superstition's  whisper  dread 
Debarred  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread ; 
For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort, 
And  satyrs  hold  their  sylvan  court, 
By  moonlight  tread  their  mystic  maze, 
And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 

XXVII. 

Now  eve,  with  western  shadows  long, 
Floated  on  Katrine  bright  and  strong, 
When  Roderick,  with  a  chosen  few, 
Repassed  the  heights  of  Ben- venue. 
Above  the  Goblin-cave  they  go, 
Through  the  wild  pass  of  Beal-nam-bo  ;* 
The  prompt  retainers  speed  before, 
To  launch  the  shallop  from  the  shore, 
For  cross"  Loch- Katrine  lies  his  way 
To  view  the  passes  of  Achray, 
And  place  his  clansmen  in  array. 
Yet  lags  the  Chief  in  musing  mind, 
Unwonted  sight,  his  men  behind. 
A  single  page,  to  bear  his  sword, 
Alone  attended  on  his  lord  ; 
The  rest  their  way  through  thickets  break, 
And  soon  await  him  by  the  lake. 

*  Bealach-nam-Bo,  or  the  pass  of  cattle,  is  a  most  magnificent 
glade,  overhung  with  aged  birch  tree*,  a  little  higher  op  the 
mountain  than  the  Cor- 


332        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  III. 

It  was  a  fair  and  gallant  sight, 

To  view  them  from  the  neighbouring  height, 

By  the  low-levelled  sunbeam's  light ; 

For  strength  and  stature,  from  the  clan 

Each  warrior  was  a  chosen  man, 

As  even  afar  might  well  be  seen, 

By  their  proud  step  and  martial  mien. 

Their  feathers  dance,  their  tartans  iloat, 

Their  targets  gleam,  as  by  the  boat 

A  wild  and  warlike  group  they  stand, 

That  well  became  such  mountain  strand. 

XXVIII. 

Their  Chief,  with  step  reluctant,  still 
Was  lingering  on  the  craggy  hill, 
Hard  by  where  turned  apart  the  road 
To  Douglas's  obscure  abode. 
It  was  but  with  that  dawning  morn 
That  Roderick  Dhu  had  proudly  sworn, 
To  drown  his  love  in  war's  wild  roar, 
Nor  think  of  Ellen  Douglas  more ; 
But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand, 
And  fetters  flame  with  ilaxen  band, 
Has  yet  u  harder  task  to  prove — 
By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love  ! 
Eve  finds  the  Chief,  like  restless  ghost, 
Still  hovering  near  his  treasure  lost ; 
For  though  his  haughty  heart  deny 
A  parting  meeting  to  his  eye, 
Still  fondly  strains  his  anxious  ear 
The  accents  of  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  inly  did  he  curse  the  breeze 
That  waked  to  sound  the  rustling  trees. 
But,  hark  !  what  mingles  in  the  strain  ? 
It  is  the  harp  of  Allan-bane, 
That  wakes  its  measures  slow  and  high, 
Attuned  to  sacred  minstrelsy. 
What  melting  voice  attends  the  strings  ? 
'Tis  Ellen,  or  an  angel,  sings ! 

XXIX. 

HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

Ave  Maria!  maiden  mild! 
Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer ; 


CAXTO  IM.3   THE  LADT  OF  THE  LAKE.        333 

Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild 

Thou  canst  save  amidst  despair. 

Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care, 
Though  banished,  outcast,  and  reviled — 

Maiden,  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ! 
Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria! 
Ave  Maria, !  undefiled  ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share, 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled, 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 

The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 
Shall  breathe  of  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled  ; 

Then,  Maiden,  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ! 
Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  Stainless  styled  ! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  this  their  wonted  haunt  exiled, 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 

"We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care, 
Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled ; 

Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer  ! 
And  for  a  father  hear  a  child ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 


Died  on  the  harp  the  closing  hymn — 
Unmoved  in  attitude  and  limb, 
As  listening  still,  Clan- Alpine's  lord 
Stood  leaning  on  his  heavy  sword, 
Until  the  page,  with  humble  sign, 
Twice  pointed  to  the  sun's  decline. 
Then,  while  his  plaid  he  round  him  cast, 
"  It  is  the  last  time — 'tis  the  last" — 
He  muttered  thrice — "  the  last  time  e'er 
That  angel-voice  shall  Roderick  hear !" 
It  was  a  goading  thought — his  stride 
Hied  hastier  down  the  mountain  side ; 
Sullen  he  flung  him  in  the  boat, 
And  instant  cross  the  lake  it  shot. 
They  landed  in  that  sin-ery  bay, 
And  eastward  held  their  hasty  way, 


334         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKB.   CCANTO  IV. 

Till,  with  the  latest  beams  of  light, 
The  band  arrived  on  Lanrick  height, 
Where  mustered  in  the  vale  below, 
Clau- Alpine's  men  in  martial  show. 


A  various  scene  the  clansmen  made, 

Some  sate,  some  stood,  some  slowly  : 

But  most,  with  mantles  folded  round, 

Were  couched  to  rest  upon  the  ground, 

Scarce  to  be  known  by  curious  eye, 

From  the  deep  heather  where  they  lie, 

So  well  was  matched  the  tartan  screen 

With  heath-bell  dark  and  brackens  green ; 

Unless  where,  here  and  there,  a  blade, 

Or  lance's  point,  a  glimmer  made, 

Like  glow-worm  twinkling  through  the  shade. 

But,  when,  advancing  through  the  gloom, 

They  saw  the  Chieftain's  eagle  plume, 

Their  shout  of  welcome,  shrill  and  wide, 

Shook  the  steep  mountain's  steady  side. 

Thrice  it  arose,  and  lake  and  fell 

Three  times  returned  the  martial  yell. 

It  died  upon  Bochastle's  plaiu, 

And  Silence  claimed  her  evening  reign. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 


i. 

M  THE  rose  is  fairest  when  'tis  budding  new, 

And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  fears  ; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  v>  ashed  with  morning  dew, 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in  tears. 
Oh  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
I  bid  your  blossoms  in  my  bonnet  wave, 
Emblem  of  hope  and  love  through  future  years  !" 
Thus  spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
What  time  the  suu  arose  on  Vennachar's  broad  wave. 


CAXTO  IVO       THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 
II. 

Such  fond  conceit,  half  said,  half  sun?, 

Love  prompted  to  the  bridegroom's  tongue. 

All  while  he  stripped  the  wild-rose  spray, 

His  axe  and  bow  beside  him  lay 

For  on  a  pass  'twixt  lake  and  wood, 

A  wakeful  sentinel  he  stood. 

Hark  !— on  the  rock  a  footstep  rung, 

And  instant  to  his  arms  he  sprung. 

"  Stand,  or  thou  diest ! — What,  Malise  ? — soon 

Art  thou  returned  from  Braes  of  Doune. 

By  thy  keen  step  and  glance  I  l^now, 

Thou  bring'st  us  tidings  of  the  toe." 

(For  while  the  Fiery  Cross  hied  on, 

On  distant  scout  had  Malise  gone.) 

"  Where  sleeps  the  Chief?"  the  henchman  said. 

"  Apart,  in  yonder  misty  glade ; 

To  his  lone  couch  111  be  your  guide.1' 

Then  called  a  slumberer  by  his  side, 

And  stirred  him  with  his  slackened  bow — 

"  Up,  up,  Glentarkin  !  rouse  thee,  ho  ! 

We  seek  the  Chieftain  ;  on  the  track, 

Keep  eagle  watch  till  I  come  back." 

in. 

Together  up  the  pass  they  sped : 

"  What  of  the  foeman  ?"  Norman  said. 

"  Varying  reports  from  near  and  far ; 

This  certain — that  a  band  of  war 

Has  for  two  days  been  ready  boune, 

At  prompt  command,  to  march  from  Doune ; 

King  James,  the  while,  with  princely  powers, 

Holds  revelry  in  Stirling  towers. 

Soon  will  this  dark  and  gathering  cloud 

Speak  on  our  glens  in  thunder  loud. 

Inured  to  bide  such  bitter  bout, 

The  warrior's  plaid  may  bear  it  out ; 

But,  Norman,  how  wilt  thou  provide 

A  shelter  for  thy  bonny  bride  ?" 

"  What !  know  ye  not  that  Roderick's  care 

To  the  lone  isle  hath  caused  repair 

Each  maid  and  matron  of  the  clan, 

And  everv  child  and  aged  man 


335 


336  THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.       [CANTO  IV 

Unfit  for  arms?  and  given  his  charge, 
Nor  skiff  nor  shallop,  boat  nor  barge, 
Upon  these  lakes  shall  float  at  large, 
But  all  beside  the  islet  moor, 
That  such  dear  pledge  may  rest  secure  ?M 


"  1rTis  well  advised  —  the  Chieftain's  plan 

Bespeaks  the  father  of  his  clan. 

But  -wherefore  sleeps  Sir  Roderick  Dhu 

Apart  from  all  his  followers  true  ?" 

*'  It  is,  because  last  evening-tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried, 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity, 

The  Taghairm*  called;  by  which,  afar, 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war. 

Duncraggan's  milk-white  bull  they  slew  -  * 

MAL1SE. 

"  Ah  !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew, 
The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had, 
When  swept  our  merry-men  Gallangad. 
His  hide  was  snow,  his  horns  were  dark, 
His  red  eye  glowed  like  fiery  spark  ; 
So  fierce,  so  tameless,  and  so  fleet, 
Sore  did  he  cumber  our  retreat, 
And  kept  our  stoutest  ken.es  in  awe, 
Even  at  the  pass  of  Beal  'maha. 
But  steep  aud  flinty  was  the  road, 
And  sharp  the  hurrying  pikeman's  goad, 
And  when  we  came  to  Dennan's  Row, 
A  child  might  scatheless  stroke  his  brow." 

v. 

NORMAN. 

"  That  bull  was  slaiu  ;  his  reeking  hide 
They  stretched  the  cataract  beside, 

*  One  of  the  most  noted  of  the  Highland  modes  of  divination 
was  the  Taghairm.  A  pn-win  was  wrappe.1  up  in  the  Bkin  ofa 
newly-slain  bullock,  and  deposited  be«i,le  a  water-fall,  or  in  some 
other  wild,  and  unusual  situation,  where  he  revolved  iu  his  mind 
the  question  proposed,  and  whatever  was  impressed  Ujpnn  hun  by 
)ii-s  rxaltcit  imagination,  passe,!  for  the  inspiration  01  the  disem- 
bodied spirits  which  haunt  theie  desoUte  recesses. 


CANTO  IV.]       THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  337 

Whose  waters  their  wild  tumult  toss 

Adown  the  black  and  craggy  boss 

Of  that  huge  cliff,  whose  ample  verge 

Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe.* 

Couched  on  a  shelve  beneath  its  brink, 

Close  where  the  thundering  torrents  sink, 

Rocking  beneath  their  headlong  sway, 

And  drizzled  by  the  ceaseless  spray, 

Midst  groan  of  rock,  and  roar  of  stream, 

The  wizard  waits  prophetic  dream. 

Nor  distant  rests  the  Chief: — but  hush  ! 

See,  gliding  slow  through  mist  and  bush, 

The  Hermit  gains  you  rock,  and  stands 

To  gaze  upon  our  slumbering  bands. 

Seems  he  not,  Malise,  like  a  ghost, 

That  hovers  o'er  a  slaughtered  host  ? 

Or  raven  on  the  blasted  oak, 

That,  watching  while  the  deer  is  broke, 

His  morsel  claims  with  sullen  croak  ?"-\- 

"  Peace  !  pepce  !  to  other  than  to  me, 

Thy  words  were  evil  augury; 

But  still  I  hold  Sir  Roderick's  blade 

Clan- Alpine's  omen  and  her  aid, 

Not  aught  that,  gleaned  from  heaven  or  helL 

Yon  fiend-begotten  monk  can  tell. 

The  Chieftain  joins  him,  see — and  now, 

Together  they  descend  the  brow." 


And,  as  they  came  with  Alpine's  Lord 
The  Hermit  Monk  held  solemn  word : 
"  Roderick  !  it  is  a  fearful  strife, 
For  man  endowed  with  mortal  life, 
Whose  shroud  of  sentient  clay  can  still 
Feel  feverish  pang  and  fainting  chill, 

»  There  is  a  rock  so  named  in  the  forest  of  Glenfinlas,  by  which 
a  tumultuary  cataract  takes  its  course. 

t  In  cutting  up,  or,  as  it  was  technically  called,  breaking  the 

slaughtered  stae,  the  forester  had  his  allotted  portion;  the  hounds 

had  a  certain  allowance ;  ant),  to  m-tke  the  division  as  general  as 

the  very  birds  had  their  share  also.     "There  is  a  little 

pristle,"  says  Tuberville,  *'  which  is  upon  the  spoone  of  the  bri&kei, 

which  we  call  the  raven's  bone;  and  I  have  seen  in  some  places 

a  raven  so  wont  and  accustomed  to  it,  that  she  would  never  fail 

to  croak  and  cry  for  it  all  the  time  you  were  in  breaking  up  of  tb« 

deer,  and  would  aot  depart  till  she  had  it." 

P 


338        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  IV. 

Whose  eye  can  stare  in  stony  trance, 

Whose  hair  can  rouse  like  warrior's  lance — 

'Tis  hard  for  such  to  view,  unfurl'd, 

The  curtain  of  the  future  world. 

Yet  witness  every  quaking  limb, 

My  sunken  pulse,  mine  eyeballs  dim, 

My  soul  with  harrowing  anguish  torn, 

This  for  my  Chieftain  have  I  borne  ! 

The  shapes  that  sought  my  fearful  couch, 

An  human  tongue  may  ne'er  avouch 

No  mortal  man — save  he,  who,  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Is  gifted  beyond  nature's  law. 

Had  e'er  survived  to  say  he  saw. 

At  length  the  fateful  answer  came, 

In  characters  of  living  flame  ! 

Not  spoke  in  word,  nor  blazed  in  scroll, 

But  borue  and  branded  on  my  soul ; — 

WHICH  SPILLS  THE  FOREMOST  FOEMAN'S  LIFE, 
THAI   PARTY  CONQUERS  IN  THE  STRIFE."* 


"  Thanks,  Brian,  for  thy  zeal  and  care  ! 
Good  is  thine  augury,  and  fair. 
Clan- Alpine  ne'er  in  battle  stood, 
But  first  our  broad-swords  tasted  blood. 
A  surer  victim  still  I  know, 
Self-offered  to  the  auspicious  blow : 
A  spy  hath  sought  my  land  this  morn, 
No  eve  shall  witness  his  return  ! 
My  followers  guard  each  pass's  mouth, 
To  east,  to  westward,  and  to  south ; 
Red  Murdoch,  bribed  to  be  his  guide, 
Has  charge  to  lead  his  steps  aside, 
Till,  in  deep  path  or  dingle  brown, 
He  light  on  those  shall  bring  him  down. 
But  see,  who  comes  his  news  to  show ! 
Malise  !  what  tidings  of  the  foe  ?" 

*  This  was  an  aujury  frequently  attended  to.  It  is  said  tha» 
the  Highlanders  under  M'mtrose  were  sn  deeply  imbued  with  th« 
notion,  that  on  the  mornine  of  the  battle  of  'Tippermnor,  they 
murdered  a  defeuceleu  herdsman,  merely  to  secure  thii  advan- 
tage. 


CANTO  IV.J      THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


"  At  Doune,  o'er  many  a  spear  and  glaive, 

Two  Barons  proud  their  banners  -wave. 

I  saw  the  Moray's  silver  star, 

And  marked  the  sable  pale  of  Mar." 

"  By  Alpine's  soul,  high  tidings  those ! 

I  love  to  hear  of  worthy  foes. 

When  move  they  on?"     "  To-morrow's  noon 

Will  see  them  here  for  hattle  boune." 

"  Then  shall  it  see  a  meeting  stern  ! — 

But,  for  the  place — ssy,  couldst  thou  learn 

Nought  of  the  friendly  clans  of  Earn  ? 

Strengthened  by  them  we  well  might  bide 

The  battle  on  Benledi's  side. 

Thou  couldst  not?— well !  Clan- Alpine's  men 

Shall  man  the  Trosachs'  shaggy  glen  ; 

Within  Loch- Katrine's  gorge  we  11  fight, 

All  in  our  maids'  and  matrons'  sight, 

Each  for  his  hearth  and  household  fire, 

Father  for  child,  and  son  for  sire — 

Lover  for  maid  beloved  ! — but  why — 

Is  it  the  breeze  affects  mine  eye  ? 

Or  dost  thou  come,  ill-omen' d  tear ! 

A  messenger  of  doubt  or  fear  ? 

No  !  sooner  may  the  Saxon  lance 

Unfix  Benledi  from  his  stance, 

Than  doubt  or  terror  can  pierce  through 

The  unyielding  heart  of  Roderick  Dhu ; 

'Tis  stubborn  as  his  trusty  targe. 

Each  to  his  post ! — all  know  their  charge.' 

The  pibroch  sounds,  the  bands  advance, 

The  broad-swords  gleam,  the  banners  dance, 

Obedient  to  the  Chieftain's  glance 

I  turn  me  from  the  martial  roar, 

And  seek  Coir-Uriskin  once  more. 


Where  is  the  Dsuglas  ?— he  is  gone ; 
And  Ellen  sits  on  the  grey  stone 
Fast  by  the  cave,  and  makes  her  moan ; 
While  vainly  Allan's  words  of  cheer 
Are  poured  on  her  unheeding  ear. 


340  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LA.KE.      [CANTO  IV. 

"  He  will  return — dear  lady,  trust ! — 
With  joy  return  ;  he  will — he  must ! 
Well  waj  it  time  to  seek  afar 
Some  refuge  from  impending  war, 
When  e'en  Clan- Alpine's  rugged  swarm 
Are  cow'd  by  the  approaching  storm. 
I  saw  their  boats,  with  many  a  light, 
Floating  the  live-long  yesternight, 
Shifting  like  flashes  darted  forth 
By  the  red  streamers  of  the  north  ; 
I  marked  at  morn  how  close  they  ride, 
Thick  moored  by  the  lone  islet's  side, 
Like  wild  ducks  couching  in  the  fen, 
When  stoops  the  hawk  upon  the  glen. 
Since  this  rude  race  dare  not  abide 
The  peril  on  the  mainland  side, 
Shall  not  thy  noble  father's  care 
Some  safe  retreat  for  thee  prepare  ?" 

x. 

"  No,  Allan,  no  !  Pretext  so  kind 
My  wakeful  terrors  could  not  blind. 
When  in  such  tender  tone,  yet  grave, 
Douglas  a  parting  blessing  gave, 
The  tear  that  glistened  in  his  eye 
Drowned  not  his  purpose  fixed  and  high. 
My  soul,  though  feminine  and  weak, 
Can  image  his ;  e'en  as  the  lake, 
Itself  disturbed  by  slightest  stroke, 
Reflects  the  invulnerable  rock. 
He  hears  reports  of  battle  rife, 
He  deems  himself  the  cause  of  strife. 
I  saw  him  redden,  when  the  theme 
Turned,  Allan,  on  thine  idle  dream, 
Of  Malcolm  Graeme  in  fetters  bound, 
Which  I,  thou  said'st,  about  him  wound. 
Think' st  thou  he  trow'd  thine  omen  aught  ? 
Oh  no  !  'twas  apprehensive  thought 
For  the  kind  youth — for  Roderick  too — 
(Let  me  be  just)  that  friend  so  true ; 
In  danger  both,  and  in  our  cause ! 
Minstrel,  the  Douglas  dare  not  pause. 
Why  else  that  solemn  warning  given, 
'  If  not  on  earth  we  meet  ia  heaven?' 


CANTO  IV.]  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         341 

"\Vhy  else,  to  Cambus-kenneth's  fane, 
If  eve  return  him  not  again, 
Am  I  to  hie  and  make  me  known  ? 
Alas  !  he  goes  to  Scotland's  throne, 
Buys  his  friends'  safety  with  his  own ; 
lie  goes  to  do — what  I  had  done, 
Had  Doiiglas'  daughter  been  his  son !" 

XI. 

"  Nay,  lovely  Ellen  ! — dearest,  nay  ! 

If  aught  should  his  return  delay, 

He  only  named  yon  holy  fane 

As  fitting  place  to  meet  again. 

Be  sure  he's  safe ;  and  for  the  Graeme, 

Heaven's  blessing  on  his  gallant  name  ! 

My  visioned  sight  may  yet  prove  true, 

Nor  bode  of  ill  to  him  or  you. 

When  did  my  gifted  dream  beguile  ? 

Think  of  the  stranger  at  the  isle, 

And  think  upon  the  harpings  slow, 

That  presaged  this  approaching  woe  ! 

Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear ; 

Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer. 

Would  we  had  left  this  dismal  spot ! 

Ill  luck  still  haunts  a  fairy  grot, 

Of  such  a  wond  rous  tale  I  know — 

Dear  lady,  change  that  look  of  woe  ! 

My  heart  was  wont  thy  grief  to  cheer " 

ELLEN. 

"  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt ;  I  hear, 
But  cannot  stop  the  bursting  tear." 
The  Minstrel  tried  his  simple  art, 
But  distant  far  was  Ellen's  heart. 

XII. 

BALLAD. 
ALICE  BRAND.* 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  green  wood, 

When  the  mavisf  and  merlej  are  singing, 

»  This  little  fairy  tale  a  founded  upon  a  very  curious  Danish 
ballad,  which  occurs  in  the  KIK.MPK  VitKH,  a  collection  of  heroic 
•ones,  first  published  in  1591,  and  reprinted  in  1695. 
t  Thrush.  :  Blackbird. 


342        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    LCANTO  IV. 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  bounds  are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  Oh  Alice  Brand  !  my  native  land 

Is  loft  for  love  of  you  ; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"  Oh  Alice  !  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 

And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight, 

Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech, 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 
For  Ifiaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

Ihat  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  mr  t  shear  from  the  slaughtered  deer 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"  Oh  Richard !  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chf.uce ; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  Fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  grey, 

As  gay  the  foresVgreen. 

"  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 


XIII. 

BALLAD — continued. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  green  wood, 

So  bli''  e  Lady  Alice  is  singing ; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  the  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 


CANTO  IV.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         343 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin.  King, 

"Who  won'd  within  the  hill — * 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"  Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairy's  fatal  green  ?+ 

"  Up,  Urgf  n,  up  !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christened  man  ;£ 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  muttered  word  or  ban. 

"  Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  withered  heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye  ; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 
XIV. 

BALLAD — continued. 
'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  green  wood, 

Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their  singing; 
The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 

And  Richard  u  faggots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  himself, 
"  1  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 

»  The  Daoint  ShP,  or  men  of  peace  of  the  Highlanders,  are  be- 
lieved to  inhabit  certain  round  grassy  eminences,  where  they 
celebrate  their  nocturnal  festivities  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Many,  it  is  said,  of  mortal  race  have  been  entertained  in  their  se- 
cret recesses;  but  unhappy  is  the  mortal  who  joins  in  1  leir  jovs, 
or  ventures  to  partakf  of  their  dainties.  By  this  indulgence,  he 
forfeits  for  ever  the  society  of  men,  and  is  bound  down  irrevocably 
to  the  condition  of  a  Shi'ich,  or  man  of  peace. 

t  As  the  daaine  tht,  or  men  of  peace,  wore  green  habits,  they 
were  supposed  to  take  offence  when  any  mortals  ventured  to  as- 
some  their  favourite  colour. 

J  The  elves  were  supposed  greatly  to  envy  the  privileges  ac- 
quired by  Christian  initiation,  and  they  gave  to  those  mortals  who 
bad  fallen  into  their  power,  a  certain  precedence,  founded  upon 
thi*  advantageous  distinction. 


344         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  IV. 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear — 
"  And  if  there's  hlood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  hut  the  blood  of  deer." 

"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood  ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepp'd  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign —  9 

"  And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 
"  And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  Demons  fear, 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself  ? 

And  what  thine  errand  here?" 


BALLAD — continued. 

"  'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's  side, 

With  bit  and  1  ridle  ringing : 

"And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy  land — 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 
"  And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape. 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 
That  I  sank  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatched  away 

To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower.* 

*  The  subjects  of  Fairy  land  were  recruited  from  the  region*  of 
humaiiitv,  so  that  many  of  those  who  were  in  this  world  supposed 
to  have  discharged  the  debt  of  nature,  had  only  become  denuaoa 
of  the  "  Loud«  of  Kaery." 


CANTO  IV.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         J 

"  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 
I  might  regain  my  mortal  moid 

As  fair  a  fona  as  thine." 
She  crossed  him  once — she  crossed  him  twice — 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold : 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand ! 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  green  wood. 
When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  grey, 
When  ail  the  bells  were  ringing. 

XVI. 

Just  as  the  minstrel  sounds  were  staid, 
A  stranger  climbed  the  sleepy  glade ; 
His  martial  step,  his  stately  mien, 
His  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 
His  eagle  glance  remembrance  claims — 
Tis  Snowdoun's  Knight — 'tis  James  Fitz-James  ! 
Ellen  beheld  as  in  a  dream, 
Then  starting,  scarce  suppressed  a  scream : 
"  Oh  stranger !  in  such  hour  of  fear, 
What  evil  hap  has  brought  thee  here?" 
"  An  evil  hap  how  can  it  be, 
That  bids  me  look  again  on  thee? 
By  promise  bound,  my  former  guide 
Met  me  betimes  this  morning  tide, 
And  marshall  'd,  over  bank  and  bourne, 
The  happy  path  of  my  return." 
"  The  happy  path  ! — what !  said  he  nought 
Of  war,  of  battle  to  be  fought, 
Of  guarded  pass?"—"  No,  by  my  faith! 
Nor  saw  I  aught  could  augur  scathe." 
"  Oh  haste  thee,  Allan,  to  the  kern 
— Yonder  his  tartans  I  discern ; 
Learn  thou  his  purpose,  and  conjure 
That  he  will  guide  the  stranger  sure  I— 

P2 


346      THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  [CANTO  rv. 

What  prompted  thee,  unhappy  man? 
The  meanest  serf  in  Roderick's  clan 
Had  not  been  bribed  by  love  or  fear, 
Unknown  to  him,  to  guide  thee  here." 


"  Sweet  Ellen,  dear  my  life  must  be, 

Since  it  is  worthy  care  from  thee ; 

Yet  life  I  hold  but  idle  breath, 

When  love  or  honour's  weighed  "with  death. 

Then  let  me  profit  by  my  chance, 

And  speak  my  purpose  bold  at  once. 

I  come  to  bear  thee  from  a  wild, 

Where  ne'er  before  such  blossom  smiled; 

By  this  soft  hand  to  lead  thee  far 

From  frantic  scenes  of  feud  and  war. 

Near  Bochastle  my  horses  wait ; 

They  bear  us  soon  to  Stirling  gate. 

I'll  place  thee  in  a  lovely  bower, 

I'll  guard  thee  like  a  tender  flower " 

"  Oh  !  hush,  Sir  Knight !   twere  female  art 

To  say  I  do  not  read  thy  heart ; 

Too  much,  before,  my  selfish  ear 

Was  idly  soothed  my  praise  to  hear. 

That  fatal  bait  hath  lured  thee  back, 

In  deathful  hour,  o'er  dangerous  track 

And  how,  oh  how,  can  I  atone 

The  wreck  my  vanity  brought  on  ! 

One  way  remains — I'll  tell  him  all — 

Yes  !  struggling  bosom,  forth  it  shall ! 

Thou,  whose  light  folly  bears  the  blame, 

Buy  thine  own  pardon  with  thy  shame ! 

But  first — my  father  is  a  man 

Outlawed  and  exiled,  under  ban ; 

The  price  of  blood  is  on  his  head, 

With  me  'twere  infamy  to  wed. 

Still  would'st  thou  speak? — then  hear  the  truth ! 

Fitz-James,  there  is  a  noble  youth — 

If  yet  he  is  ! — exposed  for  me 

And  mine  to  dread  extremity — 

Thou  hast  the  secret  of  my  heart ; 

Forgive,  be  generous,  and  depart." 


CANTO  IV.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        347 


Fitz-James  knew  every  wily  train 

A  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain, 

But  here  he  knew  and  felt  them  vain, 

There  shot  no  glance  from  Ellen's  eye, 

To  give  her  steadfast  speech  the  lie  ; 

In  maiden  confidence  she  stood, 

Though  mantled  in  her  cheek  the  blood, 

And  told  her  love  with  such  a  sigh 

Of  deep  and  hopeless  agony, 

As  death  had  sealed  her  Malcolm's  doom, 

And  she  sat  sorrowing  on  his  tomb. 

Hope  vanished  from  Fitz-James's  eye, 

But  not  with  hope  fled  sympathy. 

He  proffered  to  attend  her  side, 

As  brother  would  a  sister  guide. 

"  Oh  !  little  knowest  thou  Roderick's  heart  ! 

Safer  for  both  we  go  apart. 

Oh  haste  thee,  and  from  Allan  learn, 

If  thou  may'st  trust  yon  wily  kern." 

With  hand  upon  his  forehead  laid, 

The  conflict  of  his  mind  to  shade, 

A  parting  step  or  two  he  made  ; 

Then,  as  some  thought  had  crossed  his  brain, 

He  paused,  and  turned,  and  came  again. 

XIX. 

"  Hear,  lady,  yet,  a  parting  word  !  — 
It  chanced  in  fight  that  my  poor  sword 
Preserved  the  life  of  Scotland's  lord. 
This  ring  the  grateful  Monarch  gave, 
And  bade,  when  I  had  boon  to  crave, 
To  bring  it  back,  and  boldly  claim 
The  recompense  that  I  would  name. 
Ellen,  I  am  no  courtly  lord, 
But  oue  who  lives  by  lance  and  sword, 
Whose  castle  is  his  helm  and  shield, 
His  lordship,  the  embattled  field. 
What  from  a  prince  can  I  demand, 
Who  neither  reck  of  state  nor  land? 
Ellen,  thy  hand  —  the  ring  is  thine  ; 
Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign. 


348         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  IV. 

Seek  thou  the  king  without  delay ; 

This  signet  shall  secure  thy  way ; 

Aud  claim  thy  suit,  whate  er  it  be, 

As  ransom  of  his  pledge  to  me." 

He  placed  the  golden  circlet  on, 

Paused — kissed  her  hand — and  then  was  goue. 

The  aged  Minstrel  stood  aghast, 

So  hastily  Fitz-James  shot  past. 

He  joined  his  guide,  and  wending  down 

The  ridges  of  the  mountain  brown, 

Across  the  stream  they  took  their  way, 

That  joins  Loch- Katrine  to  Achray. 


All  in  the  Trosachs'  glen  was  still, 
Noontide  was  sleeping  on  the  hill : 
Sudden  his  guide  whooped  loud  and  high — • 
"  Murdoch  !  was  that  a  signal  cry?'1 
He  stammered  forth — "  I  shout  to  scare 
Yon  raven  from  his  dainty  fare." 
He  looked — he  knew  the  raven's  prey, 
His  own  brave  steed : — ;'  Ah  !  gallant  grey  I 
For  thee — for  me  perchance — 'twere  well 
We  ne'er  had  seen  the  Trosachs'  dell. 
Murdoch,  move  first — but  silently  ; 
Whistle  or  whoop,  and  thou  shall  die." 
Jealous  and  sullen  on  they  fared, 
Each  silent,  each  upon  his  guard. 

XXI. 

Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge, 
When  lo  !  a  v/asted  female  form. 
Blighted  by  wrath  of  sun  and  storm, 
In  tattered  weeds  and  wild  array, 
Stood  on  a  cliff  beside  the  way, 
And  glancing  round  her  restless  eye 
Upon  the  wood,  the  rock,  the  sky, 
Seemed  nought  to  mark,  yet  all  to  spy. 
Her  brow  was  wreathed  with  gaudy  broom; 
With  gesture  wild  she  waved  a  plume 
Of  feathers,  which  the  eagles  fling 
To  crag  and  cliif  from  dusky  •wing ; 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LiKE. 


349 


CANTO  IV.] 

Such  spoils  her  desperate  step  had  sought, 
Where  scarce  was  footing  for  the  goat. 
The  tartan  plaid  she  first  descried, 
And  shrieked,  till  all  the  rocks  replied; 
As  loud  she  laughed  when  near  they  drew, 
For  then  the  lowland  garb  she  knew, 
And  then  her  hands  she  wildly  wrung, 
And  then  she  wept,  and  then  she  sung. 
She  sung!— the  voice,  in  better  time, 
Perchance  to  harp  or  lute  might  chime; 
And  now,  though  strained  and  roughened,  still 
Rung  wildly  sweet  to  dale  and  hilL 

XXIL 

SONG. 

"They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray, 

They  say  my  brain  is  warped  and  wrung-— 
I  cannot  sleep  on  highland  brae, 

I  cannot  pray  in  highland  tongue. 
But  were  I  now  where  Allan  glides, 
Or  heard  my  native  Devar.'s  tides, 
So  sweetly  would  I  rest  and  pray 
That  heaven  would  close  my  wmtery  day! 

"  Twas  thus  my  hair  they  bade  me  braid, 

They  bade  me  to  the  church  repair; 
It  was  my  bridal  morn,  they  said, 

And  my  true  love  would  meet  me  there, 
But  woe  betide  the  cruel  guile,    _ 
That  Browned  in  blood  the  morning  smile! 
And  woe  betide  the  fairy  dream  !^ 
I  only  waked  to  sob  and  scream. 

XXIII. 

"  Who  is  this  maid?  what  means  her  ky? 
She  hovers  o'er  the  hollow  way, 
And  flutters  wide  her  mantle  grey, 
As  the  lone  heron  spreads  his  wmg,( 
Bv  twilight,  o'er  a  haunted  spring. 
"'Tis  Blanche  of  Devan,"  Murdoch  said, 
"A  crazed  and  captive  lowland  maid, 
Ta'en  on  the  mom  she  was  a  bride, 
When  Roderick  forayed  Devan-side. 


350      THE  LADT  OF  THE  LAKE.  [CANTO  iv. 

The  gay  bridegroom  resistance  made, 

And  felt  our  Chief's  unconquered  blade, 

I  marvel  she  is  now  at  large, 

But  oft  she  'scapes  from  Maudlin's  charge; 

Hence,  brain-sick  fool!"     He  raised  his  bow: 

"Now,  if  thou  strik'st  her  but  one  blow, 

I'll  pitch  thee  from  the  cliff  as  far 

As  ever  peasant  pitched  a  bar." 

"Thanks,  champion,  thanks!''  the  Maniac  cried, 

And  pressed  her  to  Fitz-James's  side. 

"  See  the  grey  pennons  I  prepare, 

To  seek  my  true-love  through  the  air! 

I  will  not  lend  that  savage  groom, 

To  break  his  fall,  one  downy  plume ! 

No! — deep  amid  disjointed  stones, 

The  wolves  shall  batten  on  his  bones, 

And  then  shall  his  detested  plaid, 

By  bush  and  briar  in  mid-air  staid, 

Wave  forth  a  banner  fair  and  free, 

Meet  signal  for  their  revelry." 


"Hush  thee,  poor  maiden,  and  be  still!" 
"Oh!  thou  look'st  kindly,  and  I  will. 
Mine  eye  has  dried  and  wasted  been, 
But  still  it  loves  the  Lincoln  green; 
And,  though  mine  ear  is  all  unstrung, 
Still,  still  it  loves  the  lowland  tongue. 

For  oh  my  sweet  William  -was  forester  true, 
He  stole  poor  Blanche's  heart  away ! 

His  coat  it  was  all  oi'  the  greenwood  hue, 
And  so  blithely  he  trilled  the  lowland  lay!, 

It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  tell... 
But  thou  art  wise,  and  guessest  well." 
Then,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone, 
And  hurried  note,  the  song  went  on. 
Still  on  the  Clansman,  fearfully, 
She  fixed  her  apprehensive  eye; 
Then  turned  it  on  the  Knight,  and  then 
Her  look  glanced  wildly  o'er  the  glen. 


CANTO  IV.]   THK  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         351 

XXV. 

"  The  toils  are  pitched,  and  the  stakes  are  set, 

Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily; 
The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives  they  whet 
Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

"  It  was  a  stag,  a  stag  of  ten,* 

Bearing  his  branches  sturdily; 
He  came  stately  down  the  glen, 

Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

"  It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded  doe, 

She  was  bleeding  deatbfully; 
She  warned  him  of  the  toils  below, 

Oh  so  faithfully,  faithfully! 

"  He  had  an  eye,  and  he  could  heed, 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily; 
He  had  a  foot,  and  he  could  speed — 
Hunters  watch  so  narrowly." 


Fitz-James's  mind  was  passion-toss' d, 
When  Ellen's  hints  and  fears  were  lost; 
But  Murdoch's  shout  suspicion  wrought, 
And  Blanche's  song  conviction  brought. 
Not  like  a  stag  that  spies  the  snare, 
But  lion  of  the  hunt  aware, 
He  waved  at  once  his  blade  on  high, 
"  Disclose  thy  treachery,  or  die !" 
Forth  at  full  speed  the  Clansman  flew, 
But  in  his  race  his  bow  he  drew: 
The  shaft  just  grazed  Fitz-James's  crest, 
And  thrilled  in  Blanche's  faded  breast. 
Murdoch  of  Alpine!  prove  thy  speed, 
For  ne'er  had  Alpine's  son  such  need! 
With  heart  of  fire,  and  foot  of  wind, 
The  fierce  avenger  is  behind! 
Fate  judges  of  the  rapid  strife — 
The  forfeit,  death — the  prize  is  life! 
Thy  kindred  ambush  lies  before, 
Close  couched  upon  the  heathery  moor; 

*  Having  tea  branches  oa  his  autlerfc 


352        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  IV. 

Them  couldst  thou  reach  — it  may  not  be — 
Thine  ambushed  kin  thou  ue  07  shalt  see, 
The  fiery  Saxon  gains  on  thee ! 
Resistless  speeds  the  deadly  thrust, 
As  lightning  strikes  the  pine  to  dust; 
With  foot  and  hand  Fitz-James  must  strain, 
Ere  he  can  win  his  blade  again. 
Bent  o'er  the  fall'n,  with  falcon  eye, 
He  griml)'  smiled  to  see  him  die; 
Then  slower  wended  back  his  way 
Where  the  poor  maiden  bleeding  lay. 

XXVIL 

She  sate  beneath  the  birchen  tree, 

Her  elbow  resting  on  her  knee ; 

She  had  withdrawn  the  fatal  shaft, 

And  gazed  on  it,  and  feebly  laughed 

Her  wreath  of  broom  and  feathers  grey, 

Daggled  with  blood,  beside  her  lay. 

The  Knight  to  stanch  the  life-stream  tried— 

"Stranger,  it  is  in  vain!"  she  cried; 

"This  hour  of  death  has  given  me  more 

Of  reason's  power  than  years  before ; 

For,  as  these  ebbing  veins  decay, 

My  frenzied  visions  fade  away. 

A  helpless  injured  wretch  I  die, 

And  something  tells  me  in  thine  eye, 

That  thou  wert  mine  avenger  born. 

Seest  thou  this  tress?     Oh!  still  I've  worn 

This  little  tress  of  yellow  hair, 

Through  danger,  frenzy,  and  despair! 

It  once  was  bright  and  clear  as  thine, 

But  blood  and  tears  have  dimmed  its  shine. 

I  will  not  tell  thee  when  'twas  shred, 

Nor  from  what  guiltless  victim's  head — 

My  brain  would  turn !— but  it  shall  wave 

Like  plumage  on  thy  helmet  brave, 

Till  sun  and  wind  shall  bleach  the  stain, 

And  thou  will  bring  it  me  again. 

I  waver  still! — Oh  God!  more  bright 

Let  Reason  beam  her  parting  light ! — 

Oh!  by  thy  knighthood's  honoured  sign, 

Aud  for  thy  life  preserved  by  mine, 


CAXTO  IV.]  THE  LADY  OF  1HE  LAKE. 

When  thou  shalt  see  a  darksome  man, 
Who  boasts  him  Chief  of  Alpine's  clan, 
With  tartans  broad  and  shadowy  plume, 
And  hand  of  blood,  and  brow  of  gloom, 
Be  thy  heart  bold,  thy  weapon  strong, 
And  wreak  poor  Blanche  of  De van's  wrong! — 
They  watch  for  thee  by  pass  and  fell  .  .  . 
Avoid  the  path  ...  Oh  God  ! .  .  .  farewell!" 

XXVIII. 

A  kindly  heart  had  brave  Fitz-Jaroes, 

Fast  poured  his  eye  at  pity's  claims; 

And  now,  with  mingled  grief  and  ire, 

He  saw  the  murdered  maid  expire. 

"  God,  in  my  need,  be  my  relief, 

As  I  wreak  this  on  yonder  Chief !" — 

A  lock  from  Blanche's  tresses  fair 

He  blended  with  her  bridegroom's  hair ; 

The  mingled  braid  in  blood  he  dyed, 

And  placed  it  on  his  bonnet  side : 

"  By  Him  whose  word  is  truth !  I  swear 

No  other  favour  will  I  wear, 

Till  this  sad  token  I  embrue 

In  the  best  blood  of  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

But  hark  !  what  means  yon  faint  halloo  ? 

The  chase  is  up — but  they  shall  know, 

The  stag  at  bay's  a  dangerous  foe." 

Barred  from  the  known  but  guarded  way, 

Through  copse  and  cliffs  Fitz-James  must  stray. 

And  oft  must  change  his  desperate  track, 

By  stream  and  precipice  turned  back. 

Heartless,  fatigued,  and  faint,  at  length, 

From  lack  of  food  and  loss  of  strength, 

He  couch'd  him  in  a  thicket  hoar, 

And  thought  his  toils  and  perils  o'er : — 

"  Of  all  my  rash  adventures  past, 

This  frantic  feat  will  prove  the  last ! 

Who  e'er  so  mad  but  might  have  guess'd, 

That  all  this  highland  hornet's  nest 

Would  muster  up  in  swarms  so  soon 

As  e'er  they  heard  of  bands  at  Doune  ? 

Like  bloodhounds  now  they  search  me  out — 

Hark,  to  the  whistle  and  the  shout ! 


353 


354         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  IV. 

If  farther  through  the  wilds  I  go, 
I  only  fall  upon  the  foe ; 
I'll  couch  me  here  till  evening  grey, 
Then  darkling  try  my  dangerous  way. 

XXIX. 

The  shades  of  eve  come  slowly  down, 

The  woods  are  wrapped  in  deeper  brown, 

The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell, 

The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell ; 

Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light 

To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright, 

Yet  not  enough  from  far  to  show 

His  figure  to  the  watchful  foe. 

With  cautious  step,  and  ear  awake, 

He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake ; 

And  not  the  summer  solstice,  there, 

Temper' d  the  midnight  mountain  air, 

But  every  breeze  that  swept  the  wold, 

Benumbed  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 

In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 

Famished  and  chilled,  through  ways  unknown, 

Tangled  and  steep,  he  journuy'd  on  ; 

Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 

A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned. 


Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear, 

Basked,  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer ; 

And  up  he  sprung  with  sword  in  hand — 

"  Thy  name  and  purpose  !  Saxon,  stand  !" 

"  A  stranger."     '•  What  dost  thou  require  !" 

"  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 

My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 

The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost." 

"  Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick !"     "  No." 

"  Thou  darest  not  call  thyself  a  foe  ?" 

"  I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  hand 

He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand." 

"  Bold  words  !— but,  though  the  beast  of  game 

The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim, 

Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 

Ere  hound  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bend, 


CANTO  IV.]  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         355 

TV  ho  ever  reck'd,  •where,  how,  or  when, 

The  prowling  fox  was  trapped  or  slain  ?* 

Thus,  treacherous  scouts — yet  sure  they  lie, 

Who  say  thou  cani'st  a  secret  spy  !" 

"  They  do,  by  Heaven  !     Come  Roderick  Dhu, 

And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two, 

And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 

I  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest." 

"  If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright, 

Thou  bear'Bt  the  belt  and  spur  of  Knight." 

"  Then,  by  these  tokens  may'st  thou  know, 

Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe." 

"  Enough,  enough  ;  sit  down  and  share 

A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." 


He  gave  him  of  his  highland  cheer, 
The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer  :f 
Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 
And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 
He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest, 
Then  thus  his  further  speech  addressed  : 
"  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 
A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true ; 
Each  word  against  his  honour  spoke, 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke  ; 
Yet  more  -  -upon  thy  fate,  'tis  said, 
A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 
It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn, 
Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne ; 
It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand, 
Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand  : 
But  nor  for  clan  nor  kindred's  cause, 
Will  I  depart  from  honour's  laws : 

»  Saint  John  actually  used  this  illustration  whon  enraeed  in 
confuting  the  ]>lca  of  law  proposed  for  the  unfortunate  Earl  of 
StrafforcTj-'-Il  was  true,  we  giw  laws  to  hare,  and  deer,  because 
they  are  beasts  of  chase  ;  but  it  \va»  never  accounted  either  cruelty 
or  foul  play  to  knock  foxes  or  wolves  on  the  head  as  they  can  be 
found,  because  they  are  be, IMS  of  prey." 

i  The  Scottish  Highlanders,  in  former  times,  devoured  their 
yeniion  raw,  without  any  further  preparation  than  compressing 
it  between  two  bntons  of  wood,  so  as  to  force  out  the  blood,  and 
render  it  extremely  hard.  This  they  reckoned  a  great  delicacy 


356  THa  i.ADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  V. 

To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 

A  stranger  is  a  holy  name ; 

Guidance  and  rest,  and  food  and  fire, 

In  vain  he  never  must  require. 

Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day ; 

Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 

O  er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and  ward, 

Till  past  Clan  Alpine's  outmost  guard, 

As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford— 

From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword." 

"  I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 

As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given  !" 

"  Well,  rest  thee ;  for  the  bittern's  cry 

Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." 

With  that  he  shook  the  gathered  heath, 

And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath ; 

And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 

Lay  peaceful  down  like  brothers  tried, 

And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 

Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 

€%t  CcmSat. 


FAIR  as  the  earliest  beam  of  eastern  light, 
When  first,  by  the  bewildered  pilgrim  spied, 

It  smiles  upon  the  dreary  brow  of  night, 
And  silvers  o'er  the  torrent's  foaming  tide, 
And  lights  the  fearful  path  oil  mountain  side ; 

Fair  as  that  beam,  although  the  fairest  far, 
Giving  to  horror  grace,  to  danger  pride, 

Shine  martial  Faith,  and  Courtesy's  bright  star, 

Through  all  the  wreckful  storms  that  cloud  the  brow 
of  war. 


That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen, 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         357 

When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 
Looked  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 
Muttered  their  soldier  matins  by, 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal, 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 
That  o'er,  the  Gael*  around  him  threw 
His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue, 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way, 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  grey. 
A  wildering  path  !  they  winded  now 
Along  the  precipice's  brow, 
Commanding  the  rich  scenes  beneath, 
The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 
And  all  the  vales  between  that  lie, 
Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky ; 
Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 
Gained  not  the  length  of  horseman's  lance. 
'Twas  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain  ; 
So  tangled  oft,  that,  bursting  through, 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew — 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear, 
It  rivals  all  but  Beauty's  tear ! 


At  length  they  came  where,  stem  and  steep, 
The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 
Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows, 
There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  rose  ; 
Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on, 
Beneath  steep  bank  and  threatening  stone ; 
An  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 
With  hardihood  against  a  host, 
The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 
Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak, 
With  shingles  bare,  and  cliffs  between, 
And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green, 
And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high, 
It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 

*  The  Scottish  Highlander  calls  himself  Gael,  or  Gaul,  and  trim* 
the  LowlanJ«rt  Stmenaih,  or  Saxons. 


358         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  V. 

But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still, 
Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill ; 
And  oft  both  path  and  hill  were  torn, 
Where  wintry  torrent  down  had  borne, 
And  heaped  upon  the  cumbered  land 
Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand. " 
So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace, 
The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace, 
Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws. 
And  asked  Fitz-James,  by  what  strange  cause 
He  sought  these  wilds,  traversed  by  few 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu  ? 

IV. 

"  Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried, 
Hangs  in  my  belt,  and  by  my  side  ; 
Yet,  sooth  to  tell,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  I  dreamed  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came, 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game, 
All  seemed  as  peaceful  and  as  still, 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill ; 
Thy  dangerous  chief  was  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war. 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide, 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied." 
"  Yet  why  a  second  venture  try?" 
"  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why  ? 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fixed  cause, 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws  ? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day ; 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide, 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  strayed, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid ; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known, 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone." 

v. 

"  Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not ; 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot, 
Say,  heard  ye  nought  of  lowland  war, 
Against  Clan- Alpine  raised  by  Mar  ?" 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         359 

"  No,  by  my  word ;  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  beard ; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  Lear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung." 
"  Free  be  they  flung  ! — for  we  were  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung  ! — as  free  shall  wave 
Clan- Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain  game, 
Whence  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich- Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe  ?" — 
"  Warrior,  but  yester-morn  I  knew 
Nought  of  thy  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dim, 
Save  as  an  outlaw'd  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Who,  in  the  Regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight ; 
Yet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart." 

VI. 

Wrothful  ".t  such  arraignment  foul, 
Dark  lowered  the  clansman's  sable  scowl. 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said — 
"  And  heardst  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade 
Heard' st  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
What  reck'd  the  Chieftain,  if  he  stood 
On  highland  heath  or  Holy- Rood? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given, 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven." 
"  Still  was  it  outrage ; — yet,  'tis  true, 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due ; 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand, 
Held  borrowed  truncheon  of  command.* 
The  young  king,  mew'd  in  Stirling  tower, 
Was  stranger  to  re=pect  and  power. 

»  There  is  scarcely  a  more  disorderly  period  in  Scottlih  history 
than  that  which  succeeded  the  battle  of  Flodden,  aad  occupied 
the  minority  of  James  V. 


360         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  V. 

But  then,  thy  Chieftain's  robber  life  ! — 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife, 
Wrenching  from  ruin  d  lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  reared  in  vain — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne." 

VII. 

The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while, 
And  answered  with  disdainful  smile — 
"  Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye, 
Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 
Extended  in  succession  gay, 
Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green, 
With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between  : — • 
These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale, 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael ; 
The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand, 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 
Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See,  rudely  swell 
Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 
Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread, 
For  fattened  steer  or  household  bread 
Ask  we  for  Hocks  these  shingles  dry, 
And  well  the  mountain  might  reply — 
'  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore, 
Belong  the  target  and  claymore  ! 
I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast, 
Your  own  good  blades  must  win  the  rest.' 
Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  North, 
Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth, 
To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may, 
And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey  ? 
Ay,  by  my  soul ! — While  on  yon  plain 
The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain ; 
While,  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 
But  one  along  yon  river's  maze — 
The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir, 
Shall,  with  strong  hand,  redeem  his  share.* 

1  n*  Th^Ghe!i  Kreat  traditio"al  historians,  never  forgot  that  the 
Lowlands  had,  at  some  remote  period,  been  the  property  of  their 
Celtic  forefathers,  which  furnished  an  ample  vindication  ,t  1,1 
the  ravages  that  they  could  make  ou  the  unfortunate  districts 
which  lay  within  their  reach. 


CATTO  V.]    THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE. 

Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs  who  hold, 
That  plundering  lowland  field  and  fold 
Is  ought  but  retribution  true  ? 
Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu." 


Answered  Fitz- James — "  And,  if  I  sought, 

Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought  ? 

What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid, 

My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ?" 

"  As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due  : 

Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true — 

I  seek  my  hound,  or  falcon  strayed, 

I  seek,  good  faith,  a  Highland  maid — 

Free  hallst  thou  been  to  come  and  go ; 

But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 

Nor  yet,  for  this,  even  as  a  spy, 

Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doomed  to  die, 

Save  to  fulfil  an  augury." 

"  Well,  let  it  pass ;  nor  will  I  now 

Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 

To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 

Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 

To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride ; 

Twice  have  I  sought  Clan- Alpine's  glen 

In  peace ;  but  when  I  come  agen, 

I  come  with  banner,  brand  and  bow, 

As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 

For  love-lorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower, 

Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour, 

As  I,  until  before  me  stand 

This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band." 


"  Have  then  thy  wish  !" — he  whistled  shrill, 
And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill ; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets,  aud  spears,  and  bended  bows  • 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below. 
Sprang  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe ; 
<* 


361 


362  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  V 

From  shingles  grey  their  lances  start, 

The  bracken-bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 

The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 

Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 

And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 

To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 

That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 

At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 

As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 

All  silent  there  they  stood  and  still. 

Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung, 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side, 

Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James — "  How  say'st  thou  now  ? 

These  are  Clan- Alpine's  warriors  true ; 

And,  Saxon — I  am  Roderick  Dhu !" 


Fitz-James  was  brave : — though  to  his  heart 

The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 

He  mann'd  himself  with  dauntless  air, 

Returned  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare, 

His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore, 

And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before ; — 

"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I !" 

Sir  Roderick  marked — and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise, 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood — then  waved  his  hand  ; 

Down  sank  the  disappearing  band ; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood; 


CANTO  V.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        363 

Sank  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow, 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low : 

It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth. 

Tlie  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air 

Peunon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side, 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide ; 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back, 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack — 

The  next,  all  unrenected,  shone 

On  bracken  green  and  cold  grey  stone. 


Pitz-James  looked  round — yet  scarce  believed 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received ; 
Such  apparition  well  might  seem 
Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 
Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed, 
And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied, 
"  Fear  nought — nay,  that  I  need  not  say- 
But — doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest ; — 1  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilautogle  ford  : 
Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 
For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand, 
Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 
Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  GaeL 
So  move  we  on ; — I  only  meant 
To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant,         • 
Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu." 
They  moved : — I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave 
As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive ; 
Yet  dare  not  say,  that  now  his  blood 
Kept  on  its  wont  and  tempered  flood, 
As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 
That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 
Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 
With  lances,  that  to  take  his  life 
Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide, 
So  late  dishonoured  and  defied. 


864  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        [CAXTO  T. 

Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 
The  vanished  guardians  of  the  ground, 
And  still  from  copse  and  heather  deep, 
Fancy  saw  spear  and  hroad-sword  peep, 
And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain, 
The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 
Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 
The  pass  was  left ;  for  then  they  wind 
Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 
Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen, 
Nor  rush,  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near, 
To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear, 

XII. 

The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore, 

Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes, 

From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 

Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless  mines 

On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines, 

Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world, 

Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurl'd.* 

And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  staid, , 

Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 

And  to  the  lowland  warrior  said  : — 

"Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich- Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man, 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe,  through  watch  and  ward, 

Far  past  CJfin- Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand, 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand ; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 

XIII. 

The  Saxon  paused  : — "  I  ne'er  delayed. 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 

*  Upon  a  small  eminence,  called  the  Dun  of  Bochastle,  and  in- 
deed on  the  plain  itself,  are  some  intrenchmeiits  which  have  been 
thoufffat  Koman.  There  is  adjacent  to  Callander  a  villa,  entitled 
the  Human  Camp. 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Nay  more,  brave  Chief,  I  vow'd  thy  death ; 

Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 

And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 

A  better  meed  have  well  reserved  : — 

Can  nought  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 

Are  there  no  means?" — "  Mo,  Stranger,  none! 

And  hear— to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal — 

The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ; 

For  thus  spoke  Fate  by  prophet  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  : 

'  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.' " 

"  Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 

"  The  riddle  is  already  read. 

Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliff — 

There  lies  R«d  Murdoch,  stark  and  stifil 

Thus  Fate  has  solved  her  prophecy, 

Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me. 

To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go, 

When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 

Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 

To  grant  thee  grace  and  favour  free, 

I  plight  mine  honour,  oath,  and  word, 

That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored, 

With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand. 

That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land.' 

XIV. 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye — 
"  Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high,     • 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Phu  ? 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  Fate  ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate — 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 
Not  yet  prepared  ?     By  heaven,  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valour  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet-knight, 
Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." 
"  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  ! 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steel*  my  sword ; 


365 


366        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  V. 

For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,  truce,  farewell !  and  ruth,  be  gone  ! — 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 
Proud  Chief !  can  courtesy  be  shown ; 
Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn, 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 
But  fear  not — doubt  not — which  thou  wilt — 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." 
Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 
Each  looked  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain, 
As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again ; 
Then  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

XV. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw,* 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside ; 
For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz- James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield,"!" 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard ; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  sword  drank  blood — • 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide, 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed. 
Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 
And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain, 
And,  as  firm  rock,  a  castle-roof, 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 

*  A  round  target  of  light  wood,  covered  with  strong  leather, 
and  studded  with  brass  or  iron,  was  a  necessary  part  ot'a  High- 
lander's equipment.  A  person  tlms  armed  had  a  considerable 
advantage  in  private  fi  ay. 

t  The  use  of  defensive  armour,  and  particularly  of  the  buckler 
or  target,  was  geu«ral  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  although  that  of 
the  single  rapier  seeias  to  have  been  occasionally  practised  mucb 
earlier. 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         367 

The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
Foiled  his  -wild  rage  by  steady  skill ; 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand  _ 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And,  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea, 
Brought  the  proud  Chieftain  to  his  knee. 


"  Now,  yield  thee,  or,  by  Him  -who  made 

The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dyes  my  blade  f 

"  Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy  ! 

Let  recreant  yield  who  fears  to  die." 

Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil, 

Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil, 

Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young 

Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung, 

Received,  but  reck'd  not  of  a  wound, 

And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round. 

Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own ! 

No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown ! 

That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 

Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel ! 

They  tug,  they  strain  ! — down,  down,  they  go, 

The  Gael  above,  Fitz- James  below ! 

The  Chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compress  d, 

His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 

His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 

Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew,_ 

From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 

Then  gleam' d  aloft  his  dagger  bright  1 

But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 

The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 

And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 

To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game; 

For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high, 

Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eye. 

Down  came  the  blow  !  but  in  the  heath 

The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 

The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 

The  fainting  Chiefs  relaxing  grasp ; 

Unwounded  from  the  dreadtul  close, 

But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 


368  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.       [CANTO  V. 

XVII. 

He  faltered  thanks  to  Heaven  for  life, 

Redeemed,  unhoped,  from  desperate  strife ; 

Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast. 

Whose  every  gasp  appeared  his  last ; 

In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipp'd  the  hraid, 

"  Poor  Blanche  !  thy  wrongs  are  dearly  paid ; 

Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die,  or  live, 

The  praise  that  Faith  and  Valour  give." 

With  that  he  blew  a  hugle-note, 

Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 

Unhonnetted,  and  by  the  wave 

Sate  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 

Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet 

Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet ; 

The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 

Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green  ; 

Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead, 

By  loosened  rein,  a  saddled  steed ; 

Kach  onward  held  his  headlong  course, 

And  by  Fitz-James  rein'd  up  his  horse,, 

With  wonder  viewed  the  bloody  spot— 

"  Exclaim  not,  gallants  !  question  not. 

You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight, 

And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight ; 

Let  the  grey  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 

We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 

And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight ; 

I  will  before  at  better  speed, 

To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 

The  sun  rides  high ;  I  must  be  boune 

To  see  the  archer-game  at  noon ; 

But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  let, 

De  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me  ! 


"  Stand,  Bayard,  stand  !"  the  steed  obeyed, 
With  arching  neck  and  bended  head, 
And  glancing  eye,  and  quivering  ear, 
As  if  he  loved  his  lord  to  hear. 
No  foot  Fitz-James  in  stirrup  staid, 
No  grasp  upon  the  saddle  laid, 


And  noon-  the  bulwark  of  the   North, 
Cray  Stiilin"'.  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon,  their  fteet  cttteer  ]ook.'d    down. 


369 


CANTO  Y.}   THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE. 

But  wreathed  his  left  hand  in  the  mane, 
And  lightly  bounded  from  the  plain, 
Turned  on  the  horse  nis  armed  heel, 
And  stirred  his  couiage  with  the  steeL 
Bounded  the  fiery  steed  in  air, 
The  rider  sate  erect  and  fair, 
Then,  like  a  holt,  from  steel  cross-bow 
Forth  launched,  along  the  plain  they  go. 
They  dashed  that  rapid  torrent  through, 
And  up  Carhonie's  hill  they  Hew  ; 
Still  at  the  gallop  pricked  the  Knight, 
His  merry-men  followed  as  they  might. 
Along  thy  hanks,  swift  Teith  !  they  ride, 
And  in  the  race  they  mock  thy  tide  ; 
Torry  and  Lendrick  now  are  past, 
And  Deanstown  lies  behind  them  cast  ? 
They  ris«,  the  bannered  towers  of  Doune, 
They  sink  in  distant  woodland  soon ; 
Blair- Drummond  sees  the  hoofs  strike  fire, 
They  sweep  like  breeze  through  Ochtertyre ; 
They  mark  just  glance  and  disappear 
The  lofty  brow  of  ancient  Keir  ; 
They  bathe  their  coursers'  sweltering  sides, 
Dark  Forth  !  amid  thy  sluggish  tides, 
And  on  the  opposing  shore  take  ground, 
With  plash,  with  scramble,  and  with  bound. 
Right  hand  they  leave  thy  cliffs,  Craig-fortk, 
And  soon  the  bulwark  of  the  North, 
Grey  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  looked  down. 

XIX. 

As  up  the  flinty  path  they  strained, 

Sudden  his  steed  the  leader  reined ; 

A  signal  to  his  squire  he  flung, 

Who  instant  to  his  stirrup  sprung : — 

"  Seest  thou,  De  Vaux,  yon  woodsman  grey, 

Who  town-ward  holds  the  rocky  way, 

Of  stature  tall  and  poor  array  ? 

Mark'st  thou  the  firm,  vet  active  stride, 

With  which  he  scales  the  mountain  side  ? 

Know'st  thou  from  whence  he  comes,  or  whom  f 

"  No,  by  my  word  ; — a  burly  groom 


370        THE  LADV  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  V. 

He  seems,  who  in  the  field  or  chase 

A  Baron's  train  would  nobly  grace." 

"  Out,  out,  De  Vaux  !  can  fear  supply 

And  jealousy,  no  sharper  eye  ? 

Afar,  ere  to  the  hill  he  drew, 

That  stately  form  and  step  I  knew ; 

Like  form  in  Scotland  is  not  seen, 

Treads  not  such  step  on  Scottish  green. 

'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  by  saint  Serle  ! 

The  uncle  of  the  banished  Earl. 

Away,  away,  to  court,  to  show 

The  near  approach  of  dreaded  foe  : 

The  king  must  stand  upon  his  guard  ; 

Douglas.and  he  must  meet  prepared." 

Then  ri^ht  hand  wheeled  their  steeds,  and  straight 

They  won  the  castle's  postern  gate. 

XX. 

The  Douglas,  who  had  bent  his  way 
From  Cambus-Kenneth's  abbey  grey, 
Now,  as  he  climbed  the  rocky  shelf, 
Held  sad  communion  with  himself  :— 
"  Yes  !  all  is  true  my  fears  could  frame  ; 
A  prisoner  lies  the  noble  Graeme, 
And  fiery  Roderick  soon  will  feel 
The  vengeance  of  the  royal  steel. 
I,  only  I,  can  ward  their  fate — 
God  grant  the  ransom  come  not  late  ! 
The  Abbess  hath  her  promise  given, 
My  child  shall  be  the  bride  of  heaven;— 
Be  pardoned  one  repining  tear ! 
For  He  who  gave  her,  knows  how  dear, 
How  excellent — but  that  is  by, 
And  now  my  business  is  to  die. 
Ye  towers  !  within  whose  circuit  dread 
A  Douglas  by  his  sovereign  bled, 
And  thou,  oh  sad  and  fatnl  mound  ! 
,That  oft  has  heard  the  death-axe  sound,* 

»  Stirling  was  often  polluted  with  noble  blond.  Tlie  fete  nf 
William,  eighth  Earl  of  Douglas,  whom  James  the  Second  stabbed 
in  Stirling  Castle  with  his  own  hand,  and  while  under  his  royal 
safe-conduct,  is  familiar  to  all  who  read  Scottish  history.  Mur- 
dack,  Duke  of  Albany,  Duncan,  Earl  of  Lennox,  his  father-m-law, 
and  his  two  sons,  Walter  and  Alexander  Stewart,  were  executed 
At  Stirling  in  1+25.  They  were  beheaded  upon  an  eminence  with- 
out the  castle  walls,  but  making  part  of  the  same  hill. 


CANTO  V.]    THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        371 

As  on  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Fell  the  stern  headsman's  bloody  hand— 

The  dungeon,  block,  and  nameless  tomb 

Prepare  —  for  Douglas  seeks  his  doom  ! 

But  hark  !  what  blithe  and  jolly  peal 

Makes  the  Franciscan  steeple  reel  ? 

And  see  !  upon  the  crowded  street, 

In  motley  groups  what  masquers  meet  ! 

Banner  and  pageant,  pipe  and  drum, 

And  merry  morrice-dancers  come. 

I  guess,  by  all  this  quaint  array, 

The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day. 

James  will  be  there  —  he  loves  such  show, 

Where  the  good  yeoman  bends  his  bow, 

And  the  tough  wrestler  foils  his  foe, 

As  well  as  where,  in  proud  career, 

The  high-born  tilter  shivers  spear. 

I'll  follow  to  the  Castle-park, 

And  play  my  prize  —  King  James  shall  mark, 

If  age  has  tamed  these  sinews  stark, 

"Whose  force  so  oft,  in  happier  days, 

His  boyish  wonder  loved  to  praise." 

XXI. 

The  Castle  gates  were  open  flung, 

The  quivering  draw-bridge  rocked  and  rtm^ 

And  echoed  loud  the  flinty  street 

Beneath  the  coursers'  clattering  feet, 

As  slowly  down  the  deep  descent 

Fair  Scotland's  King  and  nobles  went, 

While  all  along  the  crowded  way 

Was  jubilee  and  loud  huzza. 

And  ever  James  was  bending  low, 

To  bis  white  jennet's  saddle  bow, 

Doffing  his  cap  to  city  dame, 

Who  smiled  and  blushed  for  pride  and  shame, 

And  well  the  simperer  might  be  vain  — 

He  chose  the  fairest  of  the  train. 


»  Every  burzh  of  Scotland,  had  its  solemn  play,  or  festiv 
•when  feats  Of  archery  were  exhibited,  and  prizes  distributed 
those  who  excelled  in  wrestling,  hurling  the  bar,  and  the  oth 
'  ' 


festival, 
ed  to 

,  ,  other 

pymnaatk  exercises  '<f  the  period.  James  V.'s  ready  participation 
m  these  p-ipjlar  amusements  was  one  cause  of  his  acquiring  the 
title  of  Kin;  of  the  Commons.  The  usual  priie  to  the  best  shooter 
was  a  silver  arrow. 


372  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  V. 

Gravely  lie  greets  each  city  sire, 
Commends  each  pageant's  quaint  attire, 
Gives  to  the  dancers  thanks  aloud, 
And  smiles  and  nods  upon  the  crowd, 
Who  rend  the  heavens  with  their  acclaims, 
"  Long  live  the  Commons'  King,  King  James !" 
Behind  the  King  thronged  peer  and  knight, 
And  noble  dame  and  damsel  bright, 
Whose  fiery  steeds  ill  brooked  tne  stay 
Of  the  steep  street  and  crowded  way. 
But  in  the  train  you  might  discern 
Dark  lowering  brow  and  visage  stern '. 
There  nobles  mourned  their  pride  restrained, 
And  the  mean  burghers'  joys  disdained ; 
And  chiefs,  who,  hostage  for  their  clan, 
Were  each  from  home  a  banished  man, 
There  thought  upon  their  own  grey  tower, 
Their  waving  woods,  their  feudal  power, 
And  deemed  themselves  a  shameful  part 
Of  pageant,  which  they  cursed  in  heart 

XXII. 

Now  in  the  Castle-park,  drew  out 
Their  chequered  bands  the  joyous  route. 
There  morricers,  with  hell  at  heel, 
And  blade  in  hand,  their  mazes  wheel  j 
But  chief,  beside  the  butts,  there  stand 
Bold  Robin  Hood*  and  all  his  band — 
Friar  Tuck  with  quarter-staff  and  cowl, 
Old  Scathelocke  with  his  surly  scowl, 
Maid  Marian,  fair  as  ivory  bone, 
Scarlet,  and  Mutch,  and  Little  John ; 
Their  bugles  challenge  all  that  will, 
In  archery  to  prove  their  skill. 
The  Douglas  bent  a  bow  of  might — 
His  first  shaft  centered  in  the  white, 
And  when  in  turn  he  shot  again, 
His  second  split  the  first  in  twain. 
From  the  King's  hand  must  Douglas  take 
A  silver  dart,  the  archers'  stake; 

«  The  exhibition  of  this  renowned  outlaw  and  his  band  was  a 
favourite  frolic  in  Scotland  as  well  as  Knelaud  at  such  festivals  ai 
we  are  describing.  The  game  of  Eouiii  Hood  was  usually  acted 
ill  May. 


CATTTO  V.]         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  373 

Fondly  he  watched,  with  watery  eye, 
Some  answering  glance  of  sympathy — 
No  kind  emotion  made  reply  ! 
Indifferent  as  to  archer  wight, 
The  monarch  gave  the  arrow  bright 


Now,  clear  the  ring !  for,  hand  to  hand, 
The  manly  wrestlers  take  their  stand. 
Two  o'er  the  rest  superior  rose, 
And  proud  demanded  mightier  foes, 
Nor  called  in  vain  ;  for  Douglas  came. 
— For  life,  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame ; 
Scarce  better  John  of  Alloa's  fare, 
Whom  senseless  home  his  comrades  hear. 
Prize  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  King 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring,* 
While  coldly  glanced  his  eye  of  blue, 
As  frozen  drop  of  winter  dew. 
Douglas  would  speak,  but  in  his  breast 
His  struggling  soul  his  words  suppress'd: 
Indignant  then  he  turned  him  where 
Their  arms  the  brawny  yeoman  bare, 
To  hurl  the  massive  bar  in  air. 
When  each  his  utmost  strength  had  shown, 
The  Douglas  rent  an  earth-fast  stone 
From  its  deep  bed,  then  heaved  it  high, 
And  sent  the  fragment  through  the  sky, 
A  rood  beyond  the  farthest  mark ; 
And  still  in  Stirling's  royal  park, 
The  grey-haired  sires  who  know  the  past, 
To  strangers  point  the  Douglas-cast, 
And  moralize  on  the  decay 
Of  Scottish  strength  in  modern  day. 


The  vale  with  loud  applauses  rang, 
The  Ladies'  Rock  sent  back  the  clang ; 
The  King,  with  look  unmoved,  bestowed 
A  purse  well  filled  with  pieces  broad. 

*  The  usual  prize  of  a  wrestling  was  a  ram  and  a  r!n£    Th«  ram 
no:  being  very  poetical  is  omitted  in  the  story. 


374  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKK.         CCA.VTO  V. 

Indignant  smiled  the  Douglas  proud. 
And  threw  the  gold  among  the  crowd; 
Who  now,  with  anxious  wonder,  scan, 
And  sharper  glance,  the  dark  grey  man ; 
Till  whispers  rose  among  the  throng, 
That  heart  so  free,  and  hand  so  strong, 
Must  to  the  Douglas'  blood  belong : 
The  old  men  mark'd,  and  shook  the  head, 
To  see  his  hair  with  silver  spread, 
And  winked  aside,  and  told  each  sot 
Of  feats  upon  the  English  done, 
Ere  Douglas  of  the  stalwart  hand 
Was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
The  -women  praised  his  stately  form, 
Though  wreck'd  by  many  a  winter's  storm 
The  youth,  with  awe  and  wonder,  saw 
His  strength  surpassing  Nature's  law, 
Thus  judged,  as  is  their  wont,  the  crowd, 
Till  murmurs  rose  to  clamours  loud. 
But  not  a  glance  from  that  proud  ring 
Of  peers  who  circled  round  the  King, 
With  Douglas  held  communion  kind, 
Or  called  the  banished  man  to  mind: 
No,  not  from  those  who,  at  the  chase, 
Once  held  his  side  the  honoured  place, 
Begirt  his  board,  and,  in  the  field, 
Found  safety  underneath  his  shield , 
For  he,  whom  royal  eyes  disown, 
When  was  his  form  to  courtiers  known.' 

XXV. 

The  monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag, 

And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  stag. 

Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown, 

Two  favourite  grey-hounds  should  pull  down. 

That  venison  free,  and  Bourdeaux  wine, 

Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 

But  Lufra — whom  from  Douglas'  side 

Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide — 

The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  North, 

Brave  Lufra  saw,  and  darted  forth. 

She  left  the  royal  hounds  mid-way, 

And,  dashing  on  the  antler' d  prey, 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         375 

Sank  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank, 
And  deep  the  flowing  life-blood  drank. 
The  King's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 
By  strange  intruder  broken  short, 
Came  up,  and,  with  his  leash  unbound. 
In  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 
The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn, 
The  King's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 
And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud, 
Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd  ; 
But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred, 
To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed, 
And  oft  would  Ellen,  Lufra's  neck, 
In  maiden  glee,  with  garlands  deck ; 
They  were  such  playmates,  that  with  namo 
Of  Lufra,  Ellen's  image  came. 
His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high, 
In  darkened  brow  and  flashing  eye  ; 
As  waves  before  the  bark  divide, 
The  crowd  gave  way  before  his  stride  • 
Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more, 
The  groom  lies  senseless  in  his  gore. 
Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal. 
Though  gauntletted  in  glove  of  steel. 


Then  clamoured  loud  the  royal  train. 

And  brandished  swords  and  staves  amain  ; 

But  stern  the  Baron's  warning — "  Back  ! 

Back  on  your  lives,  ye  menial  pack! 

Beware  the  Douglas.     Yes  !  behold, 

King  James,  the  Douglas,  doomed  of  old, 

And  vainly  sought  for  near  and  far, 

A  victim  to  atone  the  war. 

A  willing  victim,  now  attends. 

Nor  craves  thy  grace  but  for  his  friends." 

"  Thus  is  my  clemency  repaid  ? 

Presumptuous  Lord  P  the  monarch  said ; 

"  Of  thy  mis-proud  ambitious  clan, 

Thou,  James  of  Bothwell,  wert  the  man 

The  only  man,  in  whom  a  foe 

My  woman-mercy  would  not  know: 


376  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKK.      CCATs'TO  T 

But  shall  a  Monarch's  presence  brook 

Injurious  blow,  and  haughty  look  ? 

What  ho  !  the  Captain  of  our  Guard  I 

Give  the  offender  fitting  ward. 

Break  off  the  sports !" — for  tumult  rose, 

And  yeoman  'gan  to  bend  their  bows — 

"  Break  off  the  sports  !"  he  said,  and  frowned, 

"  And  bid  our  horsemen  clear  the  ground." 


Then  uproar  wild  and  misarray 

Marr'd  the  fair  form  of  festal  day. 

The  horsemen  pricked  among  the  crowd, 

Repelled  by  threats  and  insult  loud ; 

To  earth  are  borne  the  old  aiid  weak, 

The  timorous  fly,  the  women  shriek  ; 

With  flint,  with  shaft,  with  staff,  with  bar, 

The  hardier  urge  tumultuous  war. 

At  once  round  Douglas  darkly  sweep 

The  royal  spears  in  circle  deep, 

And  slowly  scale  the  pathway  steep ; 

While  on  their  rear  in  thunder  pour 

The  rabble  with  disordered  roar. 

With  grief  the  noble  Douglas  saw 

The  commons  rise  against  the  law 

And  to  the  leading  soldier  said, 

"  Sir  John  of  Hyndford !  'twas  my  blade 

That  knighthood  on  thy  shoulder  laid  ; 

For  that  good  deed,  permit  me  then 

A  word  with  these  misguided  men. 

XXVIII. 

"  Hear,  gentle  friends  !  ere  yet,  for  me, 
Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 
My  life,  my  honour,  and  my  cause, 
I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws. 
Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 
The  aid  of  your  misguided  ire? 
Or,  if  I  suffer  causeless  wrong. 
Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong, 
My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low. 
That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe, 


CANTO  V.J 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.        $77 


Those  chords  of  love  I  should  unbind, 

Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind  ? 

Oh  no !     Believe,  in  yonder  tower 

It  will  not  soothe  my  captive  hour, 

To  know  those  spears  our  foes  should  dread, 

For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red ; 

To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun, 

For  me,  that  mother  wails  her  son  ; 

B'or  me,  that  widow's  mate  expires, 

For  me,  that  orphans  weep  their  sires, 

That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws, 

And  curse  the  Douglas  for  the  cause. 

Oh  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill. 

And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still!" 


The  crowd's  wild  fury  sunk  again 

In  tears,  as  tempests  melt  in  rain. 

With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  they  prayed 

For  blessings  on  his  generous  head, 

Who  for  his  country  felt  alone. 

Who  prized  her  blood  beyond  his  own. 

Old  men,  upon  the  verge  of  life, 

Blessed  him  who  staid  the  civil  stilt'e  ; 

And  mothers  held  their  babes  on  high, 

The  self-devoted  chief  to  spy. 

Triumphant  over  wrong  and  ire, 

To  whom  the  prattlers  owed  a  sire : 

Even  the  rough  soldier's  heart  was  moved  ; 

As  if  behind  some  bier  beloved, 

With  trailing  arms  and  drooping  head, 

The  Douglas  up  the  hill  he  led, 

And  at  the  castle's  bat*  Led  verge, 

With  sighs,  resigned  his  honoured  charge. 


The  offended  Monarch  rode  apart, 
With  bitter  thought  and  swelling  heart, 
And  would  not  now  vouchsafe  again 
Through  Stirling  streets  to  lead  his  train. 
"  Oh  Lennox,  who  would  wish  to  rule 
This  changeling  crowd,  this  common  fool ! 


. 


378         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  V. 

Hear'st  thou,"  he  said,  "  the  loud  acclaim 
With  which  they  shout  the  Douglas  name  ? 
With  like  acclaim,  the  vulgar  throat 
Strained  for  King  James  their  morning  note , 
With  like  acclaim  they  hailed  the  day 
When  first  I  hroke  the  Douglas'  sway  ; 
And  like  acclaim  would  Douglas  greet, 
If  he  could  hurl  me  from  my  seat. 
Who  o'er  the  herd  would  wish  to  reign, 
Fantastic,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain  ? 
Vain  as  the  leaf  upon  the  stream, 
And  fickle  as  a  changeful  dream ; 
Fantastic  as  a  woman's  mood, 
And  fierce  as  Frenzy's  fevered  blood. 
Thou  many-headed  monster-thing, 
Oh  who  would  wish  to  be  thy  king  ! 


"  But  soft !  -what  messenger  of  speed 

Spurs  hitherward  his  panting  steed? 

I  guess  his  cognizance  afar — 

What  from  our  cousin,  John  of  Mar  ?" 

"  He  prays,  my  liege,  your  sports  keep  bound 

Within  the  safe  and  guarded  ground  : 

For  some  foul  purpose  yet  unknown — 

Most  sure  for  evil  to  the  throne — 

The  outlawed  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 

Has  summoned  his  rebellious  crew; 

'Tis  said,  in  James  of  Bothwell's  aid 

These  loose  banditti  stand  arrayed. 

The  Earl  of  Mar,  this  morn,  from  Doune, 

To  break  their  muster  marched,  and  soon 

Your  grace  will  hear  of  battle  fought; 

But  earnestly  the  Earl  besought, 

Till  for  such  danger  he  provide, 

With  scanty  train  you  will  not  ride." 

XXXII. 

"  Thou  warn'st  me  I  have  done  amiss, 
I  should  have  earlier  looked  to  this : 
I  lost  it  in  this  bustling  day. 
Retrace  with  speed  thy  former  way  • 


CANTO  V.]   THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.         379 

Spare  not  for  spoiling  of  thy  steed, 
The  best  of  mine  shall  be  thy  meed, 
Say  to  our  faithful  Lord  of  Mar, 
We  do  forbid  the  intended  war : 
Roderick,  this  morn,  in  single  fight, 
Was  made  our  prisoner  by  a  knight, 
And  Douglas  hath  himself  and  cause 
Submitted  to  our  kingdom's  laws. 
The  tidings  of  their  leaders  lost 
Will  soon  dissolve  the  mountain  host, 
Nor  would  we  that  the  vulgar  feel, 
For  their  Chiefs  crimes,  avenging  steel. 
Bear  Mar  our  message,  Braco,  fly." 
He  turned  his  steed — "  My  liege,  I  hie, 
Yet,  ere  I  cross  this  lily  lawn, 
I  fear  the  broad-swords  will  be  drawn.'" 
The  turf  the  flying  courser  spurned, 
And  to  his  towers  the  King  returned. 


Ill  with  King  James's  mood  that 
Suited  gay  feast  and  minstrel  lay ; 
Soon  were  dismissed  the  courtly  throng, 
And  soon  cut  short  the  festal  song. 
Nor  less  upon  the  saddened  town 
The  evening  sank  in  sorrow  down , 
The  burghers  spoke  of  civil  jar, 
Of  rumoured  feuds  and  mountain  war, 
Of  Moray,  Mar,  and  Roderick  Dhu, 
All  up  in  arms  :  the  Douglas  too, 
They  mourned  him  pent  within  the  hold 
"  Where  stout  Earl  William  was  of  old  ;* 
And  there  his  word  the  speaker  staid, 
And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 
Or  pointed  to  his  dagger  blade. 
But  jaded  horsemen  from  the  west, 
At  evening  to  the  castle  pressed ; 
And  busy  talkers  said  they  bore 
Tidings  of  fight  on  Katrine's  shore ; 

*  Stabbed  by  James  II.  in  Stirling  Castle. 


380         THK  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  VI. 

At  noon  the  deadly  fray  begun, 
And  lasted  till  the  set  of  sun. 
Thus  giddy  rumour  shook  the  town, 
Till  closed  the  Night  her  pennons  brown. 


CANTO  SIXTH. 
Cfje  ©uartt  Uoom. 


The  sun,  awakening,  through  the  smoky  air 

Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glance, 
Bousing  each  caitiff  to  his  task  ot  care. 

Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance ; 

Summoning  revellers  from  the  lagging  dance, 
Scaring  the  prowling  robber  to  his  den ; 

Gilding  on  battled  tower  the  warder's  lance, 
And  warning  student  pale  to  leave  his  pen, 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind  nurse  of  men. 

What  various  scenes,  and  oh !  what  scenes  of  woe, 

Are  witnessed  by  that  red  and  struggling  beam  ! 
The  fevered  patient,  from  his  pallet  low, 

Through  crowded  hospital  beholds  it  stream  ; 

The  ruined  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam, 
The  debtor  wakes  to  thoughts  of  gyve  and  jail, 

The  love-lorn  wretch  starts  from  tormenting  dream ; 
The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmering  pale, 
Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes  his  feeble 

wail. 

II. 

At  dawn  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 
With  soldier-step  and  weapon  clang, 
While  drums,  with  rolling  note,  foretell 
Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 
Through  narrow  loop  and  casement  barr'd, 
The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard, 
And,  struggling  with  the  smoky  air, 
Deadened  the  torches'  yellow  glare. 


CANTO  VI.]   THE  LADY  OF  TUB  LAKE.         381 

In  comfortless  alliance  shone 
The  lights  through  arch  of  blackened  stone, 
And  snowed  wild  shapes  in  garb  of  war. 
Faces  deformed  with  beard  and  scar, 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch, 
And  fevered  with  the  stern  debauch ; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board, 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored, 
And  beakers  drained,  and  cups  o'erthrown, 
Showed  in  what  sport  the  night  had  flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench ; 
Some  laboured  still  their  thirst  to  quench; 
Some,  chilled  with  watching,  spread  their  hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands, 
While  round  them,  or  beside  them  flung, 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 

IIL 

These  drew  not  for  their  fields  the  sword, 
Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 
Nor  owned  the  patriarchal  claim 
Of  chieftain  in  their  leader's  name, 
Adventurers*  they,  from  far  who  roved. 
To  live  by  battle  vvhich  they  loved. 
There  the  Italian's  clouded  face, 
The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace; 
The  mountain-loving  Switzer  there 
More  freely  breathed  in  mountain-air, 
The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil, 
That  paid  so  ill  the  labourer's  toil ; 
Their  rolls  showed  French  and  German  name; 
And  merry  England's  exiles  came, 
To  share,  with  ill-concealed  disdain, 
Of  Scotland's  pay  the  scanty  gain. 
All  brave  in  arms,  well  trained  to  wield 
The  heavy  halbert,  brand,  and  shield ; 
In  camps,  licentious,  wild,  and  bold ; 
In  pillage,  fierce  and  uncontrolled ; 
And  now,  by  holytide  and  feast, 
From  rules  of  discipline  released. 

»  James  V.  Deems  first  to  have  introduced,  in  addition  to  fha 
national  militia,  the  service  of  a  small  nnmber  of  mercenaries,  who 
formed  a  body-guard,  called  the  Foot-Baud. 


382       THE  LADY  OF  THE  LiKE.    [CANTO  TL 
IV. 

They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray, 

Fought  'twixt  Loch-Katrine  and  Achray. 

Fierce  was  their  speech,  and,  mid  their  words, 

Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords ; 

Nor  sank  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 

Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near, 

Whose  mangled  limbs,  and  bodies  gored, 

Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword, 

Though,  neighbouring  to  the  court  of  guard, 

Their  prayers  and  feverish  wails  were  heard ; — 

Sad  burdened  to  the  ruffian  joke, 

And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke  ! — • 

At  length  upstarted  John  of  Brent, 

A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent ; 

A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear, 

In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer. 

In  host  a  hardy  mutineer, 

But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew, 

When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 

He  grieved,  that  day  their  games  cut  short, 

And  marr'd  the  dicers'  brawling  sport, 

And  shouted  loud,  "  Renew  the  bowl ! 

And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll, 

Let  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear, 

Like  brethren  of  the  brand  and  spear." 

v. 

SOLDIER'S  SONG. 

Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter  and  Poule 
Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny  brown  bowl, 
That  there's  wrath  and  despair  in  the  jolly  black  jack, 
And  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of  sack : 
Yet  whoop,  Barnaby !  off  with  thy  liquor, 
Drink  upsees*  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar ! 
Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 
The  ripe  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip, — 
Says,  that  Belzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief  so  sly, 
And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry  black  eye ; 
Yet  whoop,  Jack  !•  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker, 
Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar ! 

*  A  Bacchanalian  interjection,  borrowed  from  the  Dutdk 


CANTO  VL1       THE  LADY  OP  THE  LAKE.  383 

thuses-an    w  ot 


ine's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for  the  Vicar  ! 


VI. 

The  -warder's  challenge  heard  without 
Stayed  m  mid  roar  the  merry  shout 
A  soldier  to  the  portal  went— 

Here  is  old  Bertram,  sirs,  of  Ghent: 
And,  beat  for  jubilee  the  drum  ! 
A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  coma- 
Bertram,  a  Fleming,  grey  and  scarr'd, 
Was  entering  now  the  court  of  guard? 
A  harper  with  him,  and,  in  plaid 
AU  muffled  close,  a  mountain  maid 
Who  backward  shrank  to  'scape  the  view 
n  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew 

What  news  ?"  they  roared  :—«  I  only  know 
From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  with  foe 
As  wild  and  as  untameable, 
As  the  rude  mountains  where  they  dwell 
On  both  sides  store  of  blood  is  lost 
•Nor  much  success  can  either  boast  " 

But  whence  thy  captives,  friend?  such  spoil 
As  theirs  must  needs  reward  thv  toil 
Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp 
t  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land? 
Ine  leader  of  a  juggler  band."* 

VII. 

"No,  comrade  ;—  no  such  fortune  mine. 
Alter  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line, 
Jnat  aged  harper  and  the  girl, 
And,  having  audience  of  the  Earl 
Mar  bade  1  should  purvey  them  steed 
Ana  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 


TXr' 

verted 


384  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         [CANTO  Vt 

Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 

For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm." 

"  Hear  ye  his  boast !"  cried  John  of  Brent, 

fiver  to  strife  and  jangling  bent ; 

"  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 

And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 

To  pay  the  forester  his  lee  ? 

I'll  nave  my  share  howe'er  it  be, 

Despite  of  Moray,  Mar,  or  thee." 

Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood ; 

And,  burning  in  his  vengeful  mood, 

Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife, 

Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife ; 

But  Ellen  boldly  stepp  d  between, 

And  dropp'd  at  once  the  tartan  screen ; 

So,  from  his  morning  cloud,  appears 

The  sun  of  May,  through  summer  tears. 

The  savage  soldiery,  amazed, 

As  on  descended  angel  gazed ; 

Even  hardy  Brent,  abashed  and  tamed, 

Stood  half  admiring,  half  ashamed. 


Boldly  she  spoke — "  Soldiers,  attend  ! 
My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend ; 
Cheered  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant,  or  the  strong, 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong." 
Answered  De  Brent,  most  forward  still 
In  every  feat  or  good  or  ill, 
"  I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  played  ; 
And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid ! 
An  outlaw  I  by  Forest  laws, 
And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 
Poor  Rose — if  Rose  be  living  now" — 
He  wiped  his  iron  eye  and  brow, 
"  Must  bear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou. 
Hear  ye,  my  mates ;  I  go  to  call 
The  Captain  of  our  watch  to  hall : 
There  lies  my  halbert  on  the  floor ; 
And  he  that  steps  my  halbert  o'er, 


CANTO  VL]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        385 

To  do  the  maid  injurious  part, 
My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart ! 
Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough : 
Ye  all  know  John  de  Brent.     Enough." 

IX. 

Their  Captain  came,  a  gallant  young-— 
(Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung) : 
Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spurs  of  knight ; 
Gray  was  his  mien,  his  humour  light, 
And,  though  by  courtesy  controlled, 
Forward  his  speech,  his  hearing  hold. 
The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 
The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 
And  dauntless  eye ;  and  yet,  in  sooth, 
Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth ; 
But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien, 
Ill-suited  to  the  garb  and  scene, 
Might  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 
And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 
"  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid ! 
/Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid, 
On  palfrey  -white,  with  harper  hoar, 
Like  errant  damosel  of  yore? 
Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require, 
Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire  ?" 
Her  dark  eye  flashed  ;  she  paused  and  sighed, 
"  Oh  -what  have  I  to  do  with  pride  ! — 
Through  scenes  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  strife, 
A  suppliant  for  a  father's  life, 
I  crave  an  audience  of  the  King. 
Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring, 
The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims, 
Given  by  the  Monarch  to  Fitz-James." 

x. 

The  signet  ring  young  Lewis  took, 
With  aeep  respect  and  altered  look; 
And  said — "  This  ring  our  duties  own ; 
And  pardon,  if,  to  worth  unknown, 
In  semblance  mean  obscurely  veiled, 
Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  failed. 
Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  his  gates, 
The  King  shall  know  what  suitor  waits. 

B 


386        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  Vt 

Please  you,  meanwhile,  in  fitting  bower 

Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour ; 

Female  attendance  shall  obey 

Your  best,  for  service  or  array. 

Permit  I  marshal  you  the  way." 

But,  ere  she  followed,  with  the  grace 

And  open  bounty  of  her  race. 

She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 

Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 

The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took ; 

But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 

On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 

Forced  bluntly  back  the  protfered  gold ; — 

"  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart, 

And  oh,  forget  its  ruder  part ! 

The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 

Which  in  my  barret-cap  I'll  bear, 

Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war, 

Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar." 

With  thanks — 'twas  all  she  could — the  maid 

His  rugged  courtesy  repaid. 

XI. 

When  Ellen  forth  with  Lewis  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent  :— 
"  My  lady  safe,  oh  let  your  grace 
Give  me  to  see  my  master's  face ! 
His  minstrel  I— to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres, 
Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  above  their  own. 
With  the  Chiefs  birth  begins  our  care ; 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir, 
Teach  the  youth  tales  of  fight,  and  grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  our  rank  we  keep, 
We  cheer  his  board,  we  soothe  his  sleep, 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse, 
A  doleful  tribute  !  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot ; 
It  is  my  right — deny  it  not  1" 


CANTO  VI.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.        387 

"  Little  we  reck,"  said  John  of  Brent, 
"  We  southern  men,  of  long  descent ; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name — a  word — • 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord : 
Yet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part — • 
God  bless  the  house  of  Beaudesert ! 
'And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer. 
More  than  to  guide  the  labouring  steet, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  Minstrel,  follow  me; 
Thy  Lord  and  Chieftain  shalt  thou  see," 


Then,  from  a  rusted  iron  hook, 

A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took, 

Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 

Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 

Portals  they  passed,  where,  deep  within, 

Spoke  prisoner's  moan  and  fetters'  din  ; 

Through  rugged  vaults,  where,  loosely  stored, 

Lay  wheel,  and  axe,  and  headsman's  sword, 

And  many  an  hideous  engine  grim, 

For  wrenching  joint,  and  crushing  limb, 

By  artists  formed,  who  deemed  it  shame 

And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 

They  halted  at  a  low-browed  porch, 

And  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 

While  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  rolled, 

And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 

They  entered—  'twas  a  prison-room 

Of  stern  security  and  gloom, 

Yet  not  a  dungeon ;  for  the  day 

Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  way, 

And  rude  and  antique  garniture 

Decked  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor  ; 

Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old, 

Deem'd  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold. 

"  Here,''  said  De  Brent,  "thou  may'st  remain 

Till  the  Leach  visit  him  again. 

Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, 

To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  welL" 

Retiring  then  the  bolt  he  drew. 

And  the  lock's  murmurs  growl'd  anew. 


388        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  VI. 

Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 
A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head; 
The  wondering  Minstrel  looked,  and  knew 
Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu ! 
For,  come  from  where  Clan-Alpine  fought, 
They,  erring,  deemed  the  Chief  he  sought. 

XIII. 

As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 

Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more, 

Deserted  by  her  gallant  band, 

Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand, 

So,  on  his  couch,  lay  Roderick  Dhu ! 

And  oft  his  fevered  limbs  he  thrt'.v 

In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides 

Lie  rocking  in  the  advancing  tides, 

That  shake  her  frame  with  ceaseless  beat, 

Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat 

Oh  !  how  unlike  her  course  on  sea  ! 

Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea ! — 

Soon  as  the  Minstrel  he  could  scan, 

"  What  of  thy  lady  ? — of  my  clan? — 

My  Mother?— Douglas?— tell  me  all ! 

Have  they  been  ruined  in  my  fall  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  or  wherefore  art  thou  here  ! 

Yet  speak — speak  boldly  !— do  not  tear.'1* 

(For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew, 

Was  choked  with  grief  and  terror  too.) 

"  Who  fought?— who  fled  ?    Old  man,  be  brief; 

Some  might — for  they  had  lost  their  Chief. 

Who  basely  live? — who  bravely  died?" 

"  Oh,  calm  thee,  Chief!"  the  Minstrel  cried, 

"  Ellen  is  safe  ;" — "  For  that,  thank  Heaven  !** 

"  And  hopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given  ; 

The  Lady  Margaret  too  is  well, 

And,  for  thy  clan — on  field  or  fell, 

Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told, 

Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 

Thy  stately  pine  is  yet  unbent, 

Though  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent." 

XIV. 

The  Chieftain  reared  his  form  on  high, 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye ; 


CANTO  VI.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         OWS 

But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks 

Chequered  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 

— "  Hark,  Minstrel !  I  have  heard  thee  play 

"With  measure  bold  on  festal  day, 

In  yon  lone  isle  .  .  .  again  where  ne'er 

Shall  harper  play,  or  warrior  hear  .  .  . 

That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high, 

O'er  Dermid's  race  our  victory. 

Strike  it ! — and  then  (for  well  thou  canst) 

Free  from  thy  minstrel-spirit  glanced, 

Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight, 

When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  might. 

I'll  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 

The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears  ! 

These  grates,  these  walls,  shall  vanish  then, 

For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men, 

And  my  free  spirit  burst  away, 

As  if  it  soared  from  battle  fray." 

The  trembling  bard  with  awe  obeyed — 

Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid ; 

But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 

He  witnessed  from  the  mountain's  height, 

With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night, 

Awakened  the  full  power  of  song, 

And  bore  him  in  career  along; — 

As  shallop  launched  on  river's  tide, 

That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 

But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 

L)rives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beam. 

XV. 
BATTLE  OF  BEAL*  AN  DU1NE.* 

"  The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Ben-venue, 
For,  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say, 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch-Achray — 
Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land, 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand ! — 

*  A  skirmish  actually  took  place  at  a  pass  thus  called  in  the 
Trosacbs,  and  clnwd  with  the  remarkable  incident  mentioned  in 
the  text.  It  happened  however  so  late  as  the  invasion  of  Scotland 
by  Oliver  Cromwell,  one  of  whose  soldiers  was  thus  slain  just  as 
he  had  almost  secured  the  means  of  conveyance  for  his  companions 
to  the  island  at  the  extremity  of  Loch-Katrine.  His  party  oil 
witnessing  his  fate,  abandoned  their  ferocioui  enterprise. 


390  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.      fCAKTO  VL 

There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 

No  ripple  on  the  lake, 
Upon  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne, 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake ; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  still, 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud, 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 

That  mutters  deep  and  dread, 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread? 
la  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams, 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance 

The  sun's  retiring  beiuns? 
— I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 
I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star, 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war, 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far ! 
To  hero  boune  for  battle- strife, 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life^ 

One  glance  at  their  array ! 

XVI. 

"  Their  light-armed  archers  far  aud  near 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground, 
Their  centre  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frowned, 
Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  rear, 

The  stern  battalia  crowned. 
No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum ; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armour's  clang, 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowed  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vaward  scouts  no  tidings  bring, 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 


CANTO  VI.]  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         391 

Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe ; 
The  host  moves,  like  a  deep  sea-wave, 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave, 

High- swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain, 
Before  the  Trosachs'  rugged  jaws  ; 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause, 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 

XVJL 

"  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  *nat  fell, 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell ! 
Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 
Like  chaff  before  the  wiul  of  heaven, 

The  archery  appear: 

,For  life  !  for  life  !  their  flight  they  ply—- 
And shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broad-swords  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Are  maddening  in  their  rear. 
Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursued ; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place, 
The  spearmen's  twilight  wood? 
— '  Down,  down,"  cried  Mar,  '  your  lances  down ! 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe !' 
Like  reeds  before  the  tempest's  frown, 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  levell'd  low ; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide. 
— '  We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 
As  their  Tinchel*  cows  the  game ! 

*  A  circle  of  sportsmen,  -who,  by  surrounding  a  great  space,  and 
gradually  D Arrowing,  brought  immense  quaii  tities  ot  deer  together, 
which  usually  mode  desperate  enur  u  to  break  through  the  Tinchti. 


392  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.       [CANTO  VI. 

They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer, 
We'll  drive  them  hack  as  tame. 


"  Bearing  hefore  them,  in  their  course, 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Right  onward  did  Clan- Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broad-sword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light, 

Each  targe  was  dark  below  ; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing, 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing, 

They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash, 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash ; 
I  heard  the  broad-sword's  deadly  clang, 
As  if  an  hundred  anvils  rang  ! 
But  Moray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan- Alpine's  flank — • 

'  My  banner-man,  advance ! 
I  see,1  he  cried,  'their  column  shake. 

Now,  gallants !  for  your  ladies'  sake, 
Upon  them  with  the  lance  P 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout, 
As  deer  break  through  the  broom ; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out, 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan- Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne — 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then ! 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men. 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  pour'd ; 
Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear. 

Vanished  the  mountain  sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep, 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass; 


CANTO  VI.]   THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

None  linger  now  upon  the  plain, 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 


"  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. 
Minstrel,  away  !  the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on  :  its  issue  wait, 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. 
Grey  Ben- venue  I  soon  repassed, 
Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast. 

The  sun  is  set — the  clouds  are  met — • 
The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 

An  inky  hue  of  livid  blue 

To  the  deep  lake  has  given ; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain  glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  agen. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge, 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosach's  gorge, 
Mine  ear  but  heard  that  sullen  sound, 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life, 
Seeming,  to  minstrel-ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 

Nearer  it  comes — the  dim-wood  glen 

The  martial  flood  disgorged  agen, 

But  not  in  mingled  tide  ; 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  North, 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth, 

And  overhang  Hs  side ; 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  darkening  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shattered  baud, 
Eyeing  their  foemen,  sternly  stand ; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tatter'd  sail, 
That  flings  its  fragments  to  the  gale, 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Marked  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 

K2 


393 


394  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.      [CAITTO  VI 

XX. 

"  Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance, 
The  Saxons  stood  in  sullen  trance. 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance. 

And  cried — '  Behold  yon  isle ! 
See !  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand, 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand  : 
'Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile ; — 
My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  store, 
To  him  will  swim  a  bow-shot  o'er, 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war- wolf  then, 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood,  and  den. 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung, 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corslet  rung, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave  : — 
All  saw  the  deed — the  purpose  knew, 
And  to  their  clamours  Ben- venue 

A  mingled  echo  gave ; 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer, 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Twas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Poured  down  at  once  the  lowering  heaven ; 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch- Katrine  s  breast, 
Her  billows  reared  their  snowy  crest. 
Well  for  the  swimmer  swelled  they  high, 
To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye ; 
For  round  him  showered,  'mid  rain  and  hail, 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael. 
In  vain.     He  nears  the  isle — and  lo  ! 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 
— Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame ; 
I  marked  Duncraggan's  widowed  dame, 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleamed  in  her  hand : — 
It  darkened — but  amid  the  moan 
Of  waves  I  heard  a  dying  groan ; — 
Another  flash  !  the  spearman  floats 
A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats, 


CA>TO  VI.]         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

And  the  stern  Matron  o'er  him  stood, 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 

xxi. 

" '  Revenge !  revenge  P  the  Saxons  cried, 
The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 
Despite  the  elemental  rage, 
Again  they  hurried  to  engage ; 
But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 
Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight, 
Sprang  from  his  horse,  and,  from  a  crag. 
\V  as-ed  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 
Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 
Rang  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide, 
While,  in  the  monarch's  name,  afar 
A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war, 
For  Bothwell's  lord,  and  Roderick  bold, 
Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold." 
— But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand 
The  harp  escap'd  the  minstrel's  hand ! 
Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 
How  Roderick  brooked  his  minstrelsy : 
At  first,  the  Chieftain,  to  the  chime, 
With  lifted  hand,  kept  feeble  time  ; 
That  motion  ceased— yet  feeling  strong 
Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song ; 
At  length,  no  more  his  deafened  ear 
The  minstrel  melody  can  hear  ; 
His  face  grows  sharp — his  hands  are  clenched, 
As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched ; 
Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 
Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy. 
Thus,  motionless,  and  moanless,  drew 
His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu ! — 
Old  Allan-bane  looked  on  aghast, 
While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  passed ; 
But  when  he  saw  that  life  was  fled, 
He  poured  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead, 

XXII. 
LAMENT. 

"  And  art  thou  cold,  and  lowly  laid, 
Thy  foemen's  dread,  thy  people's  aid, 
Breadalbane's  boast,  Clan- Alpine's  shade  ; 


390        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  \l 

For  thee  shall  none  a  requiem  say  ! 
— For  thee,  \vho  loved  the  minstrel's  lay, 
For  thee,  of  Bothwell's  house  the  stay, 
The  shelter  of  her  exiled  line, 
E'en  in  this  prison-house  of  thine, 
I'll  wail  for  Alpine's  honoured  pine  ! 

"  What  groans  shall  yonder  valleys  fill ! 
What  shrieks  of  grief  shall  rend  yon  hill  I 
What  tears  of  burning  rage  shall  thrill, 
When  mourns  thy  tribe  thy  battles  done, 
Thy  fall  before  the  race  was  won, 
Thy  sword  ungirt  ere  set  of  sun  ! 
There  breathes  not  clansman  of  thy  line, 
But  would  have  given  his  life  for  thine. 
Oh  woe  for  Alpine's  honoured  pine  ! 

"  Sad  was  thy  lot  on  mortal  stage  ! — 
The  captive  thrush  may  brook  the  cage, 
The  prisoned  eagle  dies  for  rage. 
Brave  spirit,  do  not  scorn  my  strain  ! 
And,  when  its  notes  awake  again, 
Even  she,  so  long  beloved  in  vain, 
Shall  with  my  harp  her  voice  combine, 
And  mix  her  woe  and  tears  with  mine, 
To  wail  Clan- Alpine's  honoured  pine." 


Ellen,  the  while,  with  bursting  heart, 

Remained  in  lordly  bower  apart, 

Where  played,  with  many-coloured  gleams, 

Through  storied  pane  the  rising  beams. 

In  vain  on  gilded  roof  they  fall, 

And  lighten'd  up  a  tapestried  wall, 

And  for  her  use  a  menial  train 

A  rich  collation  spread  in  vain, 

The  banquet  proud,  the  chamber  gay, 

Scarce  drew  one  curious  glance  astray ; 

Or,  if  she  looked,  'twas  but  to  say, 

With  better  omen  dawned  the  day 

In  that  lone  isle,  where  waved  on  high 

The  dun  deer's  hide  for  canopy; 

Where  oft  her  noble  father  snared 

The  simple  meal  her  care  prepared. 


CANTO  VL]  THE  LADT  OF  THE  LAKE.         397 

While  Lufra,  crouching  by  her  side, 

Her  station  claimed  with  jealous  pride; 

And  Douglas,  bent  on  woodland  game, 

Spoke  of  the  chase  to  Malcolm  Grseme, 

Whose  answer,  oft  at  random  made, 

The  wandering  of  his  thoughts  betrayed — 

Those  who  such  simple  joys  have  known 

Are  taught  to  prize  them  when  they're  gone. 

But  sudden,  see,  she  lifts  her  head ! 

The  window  seeks  with  cautious  tread. 

What  distant  music  has  the  power 

To  win  her  in  this  woeful  hour  ! 

'Twas  from  a  turret  that  o'erhung 

Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  song. 


LAY  OF  THE  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 

"  My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle- grey  hound  loathes  his  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thralL 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been, 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time, 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl, 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing  ; 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  he, 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 
No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through, 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew ; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet, 
AV  hile  Hed  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee— 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me !" 


398         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  Vt 

XXV. 

The  heart-sick  lay  "was  hardly  said, 

The  list'ner  had  not  turned  her  head, 

It  trickled  still,  the  starting  tear, 

When  light  a  footstep  struck  her  ear, 

And  Snowdoun's  graceful  Knight  was  near. 

She  turned  the  hastier,  lest  again 

The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 

"  Oh  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  !"  she  said ; 

*'  How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 

Pay  the  deep  debt."     "  Oh  say  not  so 

To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 

Not  mine,  alas  !  the  boon  to  give, 

And  bid  thy  noble  father  live  ; 

I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid, 

With  Scotland's  King  thy  suit  to  aid. 

No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 

May  lead  his  better  mood  aside. 

Come,  Ellen,  come  ! — 'tis  more  than  time ; 

He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime." 

AVith  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung, 

As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 

Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 

And  gently  whispered  hope  and  cheer ; 

Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  staid, 

Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade, 

Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 

A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 


Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And,  from  their  tissue,  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  staid 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed ; 


CANTO  VI.]  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.         399 

For  him  she  sought,  who  owned  this  state, 

The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate  t 

She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port, 

Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court ; 

On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed — 

Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed, 

For  all  stood  bare  ;  and,  in  the  room, 

Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 

To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent, 

On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent ; 

Midst  furs,  and  silks,  and  jewels  sheen, 

He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green, 

The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring — 

And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King!* 

XXVII. 

As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountain  breast, 

Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 

Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 

And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay; 

No  word  her  choking  voice  commands — 

She  showed  the  ring — she  clasped  her  hands. 

Oh  !  not  a  moment  could  he  brook, 

The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look ! 

Gently  he  raised  her — and  the  while 

Checked  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile. 

Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kissed, 

And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismissed— 

"  Yes,  Fair ;  the  wandering  poor  Fitz- James 

The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 

To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring 

He  will  redeem  his  signet  ring. 

Ask  nought  for  Douglas — yester  even, 

His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven  : 

Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue, 

I  from  his  rebel  kinsmen,  wrong. 

We  would  not  to  the  vulgar  crowd 

Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamour  loud ; 

*  James  V.,  from  his  anxious  attention  to  the  interests  of  the 
lower  and  most  oppressed  das*  of  his  subjects,  was  as  we  bare 
Ireii,  popularly  termed  the  l\ing  of  the  Curnmtjnx.  For  the  pur- 
pose ot  seeing  that  justice  was  regularly  administered, and  fre- 
quently from  the  less  justifiable  motive  of  gallantry,  lie  used  to 
traverse  the  vicinage  of  his  several  palaces  ui  various  disguk.es. 


400        THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.    [CANTO  VL 

Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause, 
Our  council  aided  and  our  laws. 
I  stanched  thy  father's  death-feud  stern, 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  grey  Glencairn ; 
And  Bothwell's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  Throne. 
But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now  ? 
What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow  ? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid  ; 
Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid." 

XXVIII. 

Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung, 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 

The  Monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour, 

The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  power — 

When  it  can  say,  with  godlike  voice, 

Arise,  sad  Virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry ; 

He  stepp'd  between — "  Nay,  Douglas,  nay, 

Steal  not  my  proselyte  away ! 

The  riddle  'tis  my  right  to  read, 

That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 

Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray, 

In  life's  more  low  but  happier  way, 

'Tis  under  name  which  veils  my  power, 

Nor  falsely  veils — for  Stirling's  tower 

Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims,* 

And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 

Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws, 

Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause." 

Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low, 

— "  Ah,  little  trait'ress  !  none  must  know 

What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought, 

What  vanity  full  dearly  bought, 

Joined  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 

My  spell-bound  steps  to  Ben-venue, 

*  William  of  Worce«ter,  who  wrote  about  the  middle  of  th« 
fifteenth  century,  calls  Stirling  Castle  f.nowdouu.  It  was  pro- 
bably derived  from  the  romantic  legend  which  connected  htirliuff 
with  Kin*  Arthur,  to  which  the  mention  of  the  round  table  gives 
countenance. 


CANTO  VI] 


THE  I.ADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  401 


Tn  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 
Thy  monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  f 
Aloud  he  spoke — "  Thou  still  dost  hold 
That  little  talisman  of  gold, 
Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz- James's  ring — 
What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King?" 

XXIX. 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guessed, 

He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast ; 

But,  with  that  consciousness,  there  came 

A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  Grseme, 

And  more  she  deemed  the  monarch's  ire 

Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire, 

Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew ; 

And  to  her  generous  feeling  true, 

She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 

"  Forbear  thy  suit : — the  King  of  kings 

Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 

I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand, 

Have  shared  his  cheer,  and  proved  his  brand ; — 

My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 

To  bid  Clan- Alpine's  Chieftain  live ! 

Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ? — 

No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ?" 

Blushing,  she  turned  her  from  the  King 

And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring, 

As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 

The  suit  that  stained  her  glowing  cheek. 

"  Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force. 

And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 

Malcolm,  come  forth  f— And,  at  the  word, 

Down  kneel'd  the  Grseme  to  Scotland's  Lord. 

'  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues, 

From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 

Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile. 

Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile, 

And  sought  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 

A  refuge  for  an  outlawed  man, 

Dishonouring  thus  thy  loyal  name. 

Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Graeme  !" 

His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung, 

The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung, 


402         THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   [CANTO  VI. 

Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  hand, 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 


Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !    The  hills  grow  dark, 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descending ; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  her  spark, 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 

Resume  thy  wizard  elm  !  the  fountain  lending, 
And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  minstrelsy ; 

Thy  numbers  sweet  with  Nature's  vespers  blending, 
With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  housing 
bee. 

Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel  Harp  ! 

Yet,  once  again,  forgive  my  feeble  sway, 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 

Much  have  I  -owed  thy  strains  on  life's  long  way, 
Through  secret  woes  the  world  has  never  known, 

When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier  day, 
And  bitterer  was  the  grief  devoured  alone. 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress  !  is  thine  own. 

Hark  !  as  my  lingering  footsteps  slow  retire, 

Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy  string ! 
'Tis  now  a  Seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 

'Tis  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing. 

Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 
Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell, 

And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely  bring 
A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell — 
And  now, 'tis  silent  all! — Enchantress,  fare-  thee-  well! 


THE 


VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


THK  following  poem  ia  founded  upon  a  Spanish  tradition,  parti- 
cularly detailed  in  the  notes ;  but  bearing,  in  general,  mat  Don 
Roderick,  the  last  Gothic  King  of  Spain,  when  the  invasion  of  the 
Moors  was  impending,  had  the  temerity  to  descend  into  an  ancient 
vault,  near  Toledo,  the  opening  of  which  had  been  denounced  ai 
fetal  to  the  Spanish  monarchy.  The  legend  adds,  that  his  rash 
curiosity  was  mortified  by  an  emblematical  representation  of  those 
Saracens  who,  in  the  year  714,  defeated  him  in  battle,  and  reduced 

of  the  revolutions  of  Spain  down  to  the  present  eventful  crisis  o? 
the  Peninsula;  and  to  divide  it,  by  a  supposed  change  of  scene, 
into  three  periodi.  Thejirit  of  these  represents  the  invasion  of  the 
Moors,  the  defeat  and  death  of  Roderick,  and  closes  with  the 
peaceful  occupation  of  the  country  by  the  victors.  The  second 
period  embraces  the  state  of  the  Peninsula,  when  the  conquests  of 
the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese  in  the  East  and  West  Indies  had 
raised  to  the  highest  pitch  the  renown  of  their  arms ;  sullied,  how- 
ever, by  superstition  and  cruelty.  An  allusion  to  the  inhumanities 
of  the  Inquisition  terminates  this  picture.  The  last  part  of  the 
poem  opens  with  the  ^ate  of  Spain  previous  to  the  unparalleled 
treachery  of  Buonaparte ;  [fives  a  sketch  of  the  usurpation  at- 
tempted upon  that  unsuspicious  and  friendly  kingdom,  and  ter- 
minates with  the  arrival  of  the  British  succours.  It  umy  be  farther 
proper  to  mention,  that  the  object  ol  the  poem  is  less  to  com- 
memorate or  detail  particular  incidents,  than  to  exhibit  a  general 
and  impressive  picture  of  the  several  periods  brought  upon  the 
stage. 

I  am  too  sensible  of  the  respect  due  to  the  Public,  especially  by 
one  who  has  already  experienced  more  than  ordinary  indulgence, 
to  offer  any  apology  for  the  inferio-Jty  of  the  poetry  to  the  subject 
it  is  chiefly  designed  to  commemorate.  Yet  I  think  it  proper  to 
mention,  that,  while  I  was  hasti.y  executing  a  work,  written  for 
a  temporary  purpose,  and  on  passing  events,  the  task  was  most 
cruelly  interrupted  by  the  successive  deaths  of  Lord  President 
Blair,  and  Lord  Viscount  Melville.  In  those  distinguished  charac- 
ters, I  had  not  only  to  regret  persons  whose  live*  were  most  im- 
portant to  Scotland,  but  also  whose  notice  and  patronage  honoured 
my  entrance  upon  active  life  j  and  I  may  add,  with  melancholy 
pride,  who  permitted  my  more  advanced  age  to  claim  no  common 
share  in  their  friendship.  Under  such  interruptions,  the  following 
verses,  which  my  best  and  happiest  efforts  must  have  left  far  mi- 
worthy  of  their  theme,  have,  I  am  myself  sensible,  an  appearance 
of  negligence  and  incoherence,  which,  in  othar  circumstances,  I 
might  have  been  able  to  remove. 

EDINBURGH,  June  £4, 1811. 


THE 
VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


«CIO  D10NO1I  KZMOR 
TOX  HUMANA  VAI.BTY 


INTRODUCTION. 

L 

LIVES  there  a  strain,  whose  sounds  of  mounting 

May  rise  distinguish'd  o'er  the  din  of  war,  [fire, 
Or  died  it  with  yon  master  of  the  lyre, 

Who  sung  beleaguer' d  Ilion's  evil  star  ? 
Such,  WELLINGTON,  might  reach  thee  from  afar, 

Wafting  its  descant  wide  o'er  Ocean's  range ; 
Nor  shouts,  nor  clashing  arms,  its  mood  could  mar, 

All  as  it  swell'd  'twixteach  loud  trumpet-change, 
That  clangs  to  Britain  victory,  to  Portugal  revenge  ! 

IL 

Yes !  such  a  strain,  with  all-o'erpowering  measure, 

Might  melodize  with  each  tumultuous  sound, 
Each  voice  of  fear  or  triumph,  woe  or  pleasure, 

That  rings  Mondego's  ravaged  shores  around ; 
The  thundering  cry  of  hosts  with  conquest  crown'd, 

The  female  shriek,  the  ruin'd  peasant's  moan, 
The  shout  of  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

The  foil'd  oppressor's  deep  and  sullen  groan, 
A  nation's  choral  nymn  for  tyranny  o'erthrown. 

in. 

But  we  weak  minstrels  of  a  laggard  day, 
Skill'd  but  to  imitate  an  elder  page, 


406  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

Timid  and  raptureless,  can  we  repay 

The  debt  thou  claim'st  in  this  exhausted  age  ? 
Thou  giv'st  our  lyres  a  theme,  that  might  engage 
Those  that  could  send  thy  name  o'er  sea  and 

land, 
While  sea  and  land  shall  .'sst ;  for  Homer's  rage 

A  theme;  a  theme  for  Milton's  mighty  hand — • 
How  much  unmeet  for  us.  a  faint  degenerate  band  ! 

IV. 

Ye  mountains  stern !  within  whose  rugged  breast 

The  friends  of  Scottish  freedom  found  repose ; 

5Te  torrents !  whose  hoarse  sounds  have  soothed 

their  rest, 

Returning  from  the  field  of  vanquish'd  foes ; 
Say,  have  ye  lost  each  wild  majestic  close, 

That  erst  the  choir  of  bards  or  druids  flung, 
'    What  time  their  hymn  of  victory  arose, 

And  Cattraeth's  glens  with  voice  of  triumph 

rung, 

And  mystic  Merlin  harp'd,  and  grey-hair'd  Lly- 
warch sung.* 

V. 

O  !  if  your  wilds  such  minstrelsy  retain, 

As  sure  your  changeful  gales  seem  oft  to  say, 
When  sweeping  wild  and  sinking  soft  again, 

Like  trumpet-jubilee,  or  harp's  wild  sway ; 
If  ye  can  echo  such  triumphant  lay, 

Then  lend  the  note  to  him  has  loved  you  long 
Who  pious  gather'd  each  tradition  grey, 

That  floats  your  solitary  wastes  along, 
And  with  affection  vain  gave  them  new  voice  in  song. 

VI. 

For  not  till  now,  how  oft  soe'er  the  task 
Of  truant  verse  hath  lighten'd  graver  care, 

*  Much  of  the  ancient  poetry,  preserved  in  Wales,  refers  to 
events  which  happened  in  the  North-west  of  England  and  South- 
west of  Scotland',  where  the  Britons  for  a  lo?ig  time  made  a  ctaud 
against  the  Saxons. — Llywarch,  the  celebrated  bard  and  monarch, 
was  Prince  of  Argoon,  in  Cumberland  ;  and  his  youthful  exploits 
were  performed  upon  the  Border,  although  in  his*  age  he  was 
driven  into  Powys  by  the  successes  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  As  for 
Merlin  Wyllt,  or  the  Savage,  his  name  of  Caledonia:),  and  his  re- 
treat into  the  Caledonian  wood,  appropriates  him  to  I-  — • 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  407 

From  muse  or  sylvan  was  he  •wont  to  asK, 

In  phrase  poetic,  inspiration  fair; 
Careless  hetjave  his  numbers  to  the  air,— 

They  came  unsought  for,  if  applauses  came ; 
Nor  for  himself  prefers  he  now  the  prayer ; 

Let  but  his  verse  befit  a  hero's  fame, 
Immortal  be  the  verse  ! — forgot  the  poet's  name. 

TIL 

Hark,  from  yon  misty  cairn  their  answer  toss'd : 

u  Minstrel !  the  fame  of  whose  romantic  lyre, 
Capricious  swelling  now,  may  soon  be  lost, 

Like  the  light  flickering  of  a  cottage  fire : 
If  to  such  task  presumptuous  thou  aspire, 

Seek  not  from  us  the  meed  to  warrior  due; 
Age  after  age  has  gathered  son  to  sire. 

Since  o-.ir  grey  cliffs  the  din  of  conflict  knew, 
Or,  pealing  through  our  vales,  victorious  bugles  blew. 

VIII. 

-  "  Decay'd  our  old  traditionary  lore, 

Save  where  the  lingering  fays  renew  their  ring, 

By  milk-maid  seen  beneath  the  hawthorn  hoar, 

Or  round  the  marge  of  Minchmore's  haunted 

spring  ;*  [s'ng. 

Save  where   their  legends  grey-hair' d  shepherds 

That  now  scarce  win  a  listening  ear  but  thine, 
Of  feuds  obscure,  and  border  ravaging, 

And  rugged  deeds  recount  in  rugged  line, 
Of  moonlight  foray  made  on  Teviot,  Tweed,  or  Tyne. 

IX. 

"  No !  search  romantic  lands,  where  the  near  Sun 
Gives  with  unstinted  boon  ethereal  flame, 

Where  the  rude  villager,  his  labour  done, 

In   verse    spontaneous^  chants  some   favour'd 
name  i 


*  A  copious  fountain  upon  the  ridge  of  Minchmore,  called  the 
Cheesewell,  is  supposed  to  be  sacred  to  the  fuiiies,  and  it  was  cus- 
tomary to  propitiate  them  bv  throwing  in  something  upon  pass- 
ing it. 

t  The  flexibility  of  the  Italian  and  Spanish  languages,  renders 
these  countries  distinguished  for  the  talent  of  improvisation. 


408  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

Whether  Olalia's  charms  his  tribute  claim 
Her  eye  of  diamond,  and  her  locks  of  jet; 

Or  -whether,  kindling  at  the  deeds  of  Graeme,* 

He  sing,  to  wild  Morisco  measure  set, 
Old  Albin's  red  claymore,  green  Erin's  bayonet ! 


"  Explore  those  regions,  where  the  flinty  crest 

Of  wild  Nevada  ever  gleams  with  snows, 
Where  in  the  proud  Alhambra's  ruined  breast 

Barbaric  monuments  of  pomp  repose ; 
Or  where  the  banners  of  more  ruthless  foes 

Than  the  fierce  Moor,  float  o'er  Toledo's  fane, 
From  whose  tall  towers  even  now  the  patriot  throws 

An  anxious  glance,  to  spy  upon  the  plain 
The  blended  ranks  of  England,  Portugal,  and  Spain. 


"  There,  of  Numantian  fire  a  swarthy  spark 

Still  lightens  in  the  sun-burnt  native's  eye; 
The  stately  port,  slow  step,  and  visage  dark, 

Still  mark  enduring  pride  and  constancy, 
And,  if  the  glow  of  feudal  chivalry 

Beam  not,  as  once,  thy  nobles'  dearest  pride, 
Iberia  !  oft  thy  crestless  peasantry 

Have  seen  the  plumed  Hidalgo  quit  their  side, 
Have  seen,  yet  dauntless  stood — 'gainst  fortune  fought 
and  died. 


"  And  cherish'd  still  by  that  unchanging  race, 

Are  themes  for  minstrelsy  more  high  than  thine ; 
Of  strange  tradition  many  a  mystic  trace, 

Legend  and  vision,  prophecy  and  sign ; 
Where  wonders  wild  of  Arabesque  combine 

With  Gothic  imagery  of  darker  shade, 
Forming  a  model  meet  for  minstrel  ane.       [said  : 

Go,  seek  such  theme !" — The  Mountain  Spirit 
With  filial  awe  I  heard — I  heard,  and  I  obey'd. 

*  The  name  of  Grnhume,  in  England  is  usually  pronotuwed  us  a 
dissyllable. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  409 


THE  VISION. 

i. 

REARING  their  crests  amid  the  cloudless  skies, 

And  darkly  clu-  -:ring  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Toledo's  holy  towers  and  spires  arise, 

As  from  a  trembling  lake  of  silver  -white ; 
Their  mingled  shadows  intercept  the  sight 

Of  the  broad  burial-ground  outstretch1  d  belcrw> 
And  nought  disturbs  the  silence  of  the  night ; 

All  sleeps  in  sullen  shade,  or  silver  glow, 
All  save  the  heavy  swell  of  Teio's  ceaseless  flow. 

n. 

All  save  the  rushing  swell  of  Teio's  tide, 

Or,  distant  heard,  a  courser's  neigh  or  tramp ; 
Their  changing  rounds  as  watchful  horsemen  ride, 

To  guard  the  limits  of  King  Roderick's  camp, 
For,  through  the  river's  night-fog  rolling  damp, 

Was  many  a  proud  pavilion  dimly  seen, 
Which  glimmer'd  hack,  against  the  moon's  fair 

Tissues  of  silk  and  silver  twisted  sheen,   [lamp, 
And  standards  proudly  pitch' d,  and  warders  arm  d 
between. 

III. 

But  of  their  Monarch's  person  keeping  ward, 

Since  last  the  deep-mouth'd  bell  of  vespers  toll'd, 
The  chosen  soldiers  of  the  royal  guard 

Their  post  beneath  the  proud  Cathedral  hold : 
A  band  unlike  their  Gothic  sires  of  old, 

Who,  for  the  cap  of  steel  and  iron  mace, 
Bear  slender  darts,  and  casques  bedeck' d  with  gold, 

While  silver-studded  b«lts  their  shoulders  grace, 
Where  ivory  quivers  ring  in  the  broad  falchion's 
place. 

IV. 
In  the  light  language  of  an  idle  court, 

They  murmur'd  at  their  master's  long  delay, 
And  held  his  lentfthen'd  orisons  in  sport :      [stay, 
"  What !  will  Don  Roderick  here  till  morning 
S 


410  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

To  wear  in  shrift  and  prayer  the  night  away  ? 
And  are  his  hours  in  such  dull  penance  past 
For  fair  Florinda's  plunder'd  charms  to  pay?"* 

Then  to  the  east  their  weary  eyes  they  cast, 
And  wish'd  the  lingering  dawu  would  glimmer  forth 
at  last. 

V. 

But,  far  within,  Toledo's  Prelate  lent 

An  ear  of  fearful  wonder  to  the  King ; 
The  silver  lamp  a  fitful  lustre  sent, 

So  long  that  sad  confession  witnessing : 
For  Roderick  told  of  many  a  hidden  thing, 

Such  as  are  lothly  utter  d  to  the  air, 
When  Fear,  Remorse,  and  Shame,  the  bosom  wring, 

And  Guilt  his  secret  burthen  cannot  bear^ 
And  Conscience  seeks    in  speech  a  respite  from 
Despair. 


Full  on  the  Prelate's  face,  and  silver  hair, 

The  stream  of  failing  light  was  feebly  roll'd ; 
But  Roderick's  visage,  though  his  head  was  bare, 

Was  shadow'd  by  his  hand  and  mantle's  fold. 
While  of  his  hidden  soul  the  sins  he  told, 

Proud  Alaric's  descendant  could  not  brook, 
That  mortal  man  his  bearing  should  behold, 

Or  boast  that  he  had  seen,  when  conscience  shook, 
Fear  tame  a  monarch's  brow,  remorse  a  warrior's 
look. 

VII. 

The  old  man's  faded  cheek  wax'd  yet  more  pale, 
As  many  a  secret  sad  the  king  bewray 'd ; 

And  sign  and  glance  eked  out  the  unfinished  tale, 
When  in  the  midst  his  faltering  whisper  staid, 

*  The  invasion  of  the  Moors  is  generally  attributed  to  the  for- 
cible violation  committed  by  Roderick  upon  Florinda,  called  by 
the  Moors,  Caba,  ..r  Cava,  the  daughter  of  Count  Julian.  In  hia 
indignation  Julian  formed  an  alliance  with  the  Moors,  and  coun- 
tenanced the  invasion  of  Spain  l_y  abodyol  Saracens  and  Africans, 
commanded  by  the  celebrated  Tarik ;  the  issue  of  which  was  tlia 
defeat  ami  death  of  Roderick,  and  the  occupation  of  almost  the 
whole  peninsula  by  the  enemy. 


TUE  VISION  0V  DON  RODERICK.  411 

"  Thus  royal  Witiza*  -was  slain,"—  he  said  ; 
"  Yet,  holy  father,  deem  not  it  was  I."- 
Thus  still  Ambition  strives  her  crimes  to  shade— 

"  O  rather  deem  'twas  stern  necessity  !  _ 
Self-preservation  hade,  and  I  must  kill  or  die. 

VIII. 

"  And,  if  Florinda's  shrieks  alarm'd  the  air, 

If  she  invoked  her  absent  sire  in  vain, 
And  on  her  knees  implored  that  I  would  spare, 

Yet,  reverend  priest,  thy  sentence  rash  retrain!  — 
All  is  not  as  it  seems  —  the  female  train  _ 

Know  by  their  bearing  to  disguise  their  mood: 
But  Conscience  here,  as  if  in  high  disdain, 

Sent  to  the  Monarch's  cheek  the  burning  blood- 
He  stay'd  his  speech  abrupt—  and  up   the  Prelata 
stood. 

IX. 

«'  0  harden'd  offspring  of  an  iron  race  ! 

What  of  thy  crimes,  Don  Roderick,  shall  I  say? 
What  alms,  or  prayers,  or  penance  can  efface 

Murder's  dark  spot,  wash  treason's  stain  away  ! 
For  the  foul  ravisher  how  shall  I  pray,     [boast  ? 

Who,  scarce   repentant,   makes  his   crime   his 
How  hope  Almighty  vengeance  shall  delay, 

Unless,  in  mercy  to  yon  Christian  host, 
He  spare  the  shepherd,  lest  the  guiltless  sheep  bo 
lost."— 

X. 
Then  kindled  the  dark  tyrant  in  his  mood 

And  to  his  -brow  return'd  its  dauntless  gloom  ; 
"And  welcome  then,"  he  cried,  "be  blood  lor  blood, 

For  treason  treachery,  for  dishonour  doom  ! 
Yet  will  I  know  whence  come  they,  or  by  whom. 

Show,  for  thou  canst—  give  forth  the  fated  key, 
And  guide  me,  Priest,  to  that  mysterious  room, 

Where,  if  aught  true  in  old  tradition  be, 
His  nation's  future  fates  a  Spanish  King  shall  see."— 


father  °1  Spanish  history. 


412  THE  VISION  OF  DO.N  ROM  RICK. 


"  Ill-fated  prince  !  recall  the  desperate  word, 

Or  pause  ere  yet  the  omen  thou  obey ! 
Bethink,  yon  spell-bound  portal  would  afford 

Never  to  former  Monarch  entrance-way ; 
Nor  shall  it  ever  ope,  old  records  say, 

Save  to  a  King,  the  last  of  all  his  line, 
What  time  his  empire  totters  to  decay, 

And  treason  digs,  beneath,  her  fatal  mine, 
And,  high  above,  impends  avenging  wrath  divine."— 

XII. 

— "  Prelate  !  a  Monarch's  fate  brooks  no  delay  ! 

Lead  on !" — The  ponderous  key  the  old  man  took, 
And  held  the  winking  lamp,  and  led  the  way 

By  winding  stair,  dark  aisle,  and  secret  nook, 
Then  on  an  ancient  gateway  bent  his  look  ; 

And,  as  the  key  the  desperate  King  essav'd, 
Low  mutter'd  thunders  the  Cathedral  shooi, 

And  twice  he  stopp'd,  and  twice  new  effort  made, 
Till  the  huge  bolts  roll'd  back,  and  the  loud  hinges 
bray'd. 


Long,  large,  and  lofty,  was  that  vaulted  hall ; 

Roof,  walls,  and  floor,  were  all  of  marble  stone. 
Of  polish' d  marble,  black  as  funeral  pall, 

Carved  o'er  with  signs  and  characters  unknown. 
A  paly  light,  as  of  the  dawning,  shone 

Through  the  sad  bounds,  but  whence  they  could 

not  spy ; 
For  window  to.  the  upper  air  was  -none  ; 

Yet,  by  that  light,  Don  Roderick  could  descry 
Wonders  that  ne'er  till  then  were  seen  by  mortal  eye, 

XIV. 

Grim  sentinels,  against  the  upper  wall, 

Of  molten  bronze,  two  Statues  held  their  place ; 

Massive  their  naked  limbs,  their  stature  tall, 
Their  frowning  foreheads  golden  circles  grace. 

Moulded  they  seem'd  for  kings  of  giant  race, 
That  lived  and  siim'd  before  the  avenging  flood • 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


413 


This  grasp' d  a  scythe,  that  rested  on  a  mace  ; 
This  spread  his  wings  for  flight,  that  pondering 

stood, 
Each  stubborn  seem'd  and  stern,  immutable  of  mood. 

XV. 

Fix'd  was  the  right-hand  Giant's  brazen  look 

Upon  his  brother's  glass  of  shifting  sand, 
As  if  its  ebb  he  measured  by  a  book, 

Whose  iron  volume  loaded  his  huge  hand ; 
In  -which  was  wrote  of  many  a  falling  land, 

Of  empires  lost,  and  kings  to  exile  driven ; 
And  o'er  that  pair  their  names  in  scroll  expand — 
"  Lo,  DESTINY  and  TIME  !  to  whom  by  Heaven 
The  guidance  of  the  earth  is  for  a  season  given." — 

XVI. 
Even  while  they  read,  the  sand-glass  wastes  away; 

And,  as  the  last  and  lagging  grains  did  creep, 
That  right-hand  (riant  'gan  his  club  upsway, 

As  one  that  startles  from  a  heavy  sleep. 
Full  on  the  upper  wall  the  mace's  sweep 

At  once  descended  with  the  force  of  thunder, 
And,  hurling  down  at  once,  in  crumbled  heap, 

The  marble  boundary  was  rent  asunder, 
And  gave  to  Roderick's  view  new  sights  of  fear  and 
•wonder. 

XVII. 
For  they  might  spy,  beyond  that  mighty  breach, 

Realms  as  of  Spain  in  vision'd  prospect  laid, 
Castles  and  towers,  in  due  proportion  each, 

As  by  some  skilful  artist's  hand  portray 'd: 
Here,  cross'd  by  many  a  wild  Sierra's  shade. 

And  boundless  plains  that  tire  the  traveller  s  eye; 
There,  rich  with  vineyard  and  with  olive-glade, 
Or  deep-embrown' d  by  forests  huge  and  high, 
Or  wash'd  by  mighty  streams,  that  slowly  mur- 
mur d  by. 

XVIII. 

And  here,  as  erst  upon  the  antique  stage 

Pass'd  forth  the  bands  of  masquers  trimly  led, 


4 1 4  THE  VISION  OF  PON  RODERICK. 

In  various  forms,  and  various  equipage, 
While  fitting  strains  the  hearer's  fancy  fed ; 

So,  to  sad  Roderick's  eye  in  order  spread, 
Successive  pageants  fill'd  that  mystic  scene, 

Showing  the  fate  of  hattles  ere  they  bled, 

And  issue  of  events  that  had  not  heen ;   [tween. 
And  ever  and  anon  strange  sounds  were  heard  be- 

XIX. 

First  shrill 'd  an  unrepeated  female  shriek! — 

It  seem'd  as  if  Don  Roderick  knew  the  call, 
For  the  bold  blood  was  blanching  in  his  cheek.— 

Then  answer'd  kettle-drum  and  atabal, 
Gong-peal  and  cymbal-clank  the  ear  appal, 

The  Tecbir  war-cry,  and  the  Lelies  yell,* 
Ring  wildly  dissonant  along  the  hall. 

Needs  not  to  Roderick  their  dread  import  tell— 
"  The  Moor !"  he  cried,  "  the  Moor  ! — ring  out  the 
tocsin  bell ! 

XX. 

"They  come  !  they  come  !  I  see  the  groaning  lands 

White  with  the  turbans  of  each  Arab  horde, 
Swart  Zaarah  joins  her  misbelieving  bands, 

Alia  and  Mahomet  their  battle-word, 
The  choice  they  yield  the  Koran  or  the  sword. — 

See  how  the  Christians  rush  to  arms  amain  ! — 
In  yonder  shout  the  voice  of  conflict  roar'd ; 

The  shadowy  hosts  are  closing  on  the  plain — 
Now,  God  and  St  lago  strike,  for  the  good  cause  of 
~    "  i  f" 


XXI. 

"  By  heaven,  the  Moors  prevail !  the  Christians 
yield ! — 

Their  coward  leader  gives  for  flight  the  sign  ! 
The  sceptred  craven  mounts  to  quit  the  field  — 

Is  not  yon  steed  Orelia? — Yes,  'tis  mine  !-f- 

»  The  tecbir,  (derived  from  the  words  Jlla.  acbar,  G«d  is  most 
mighty.)  was  the  original  war-cry  of  the  Saracens.  Ihe  f.e/ie, 
well  known  to  the  Christians  during  the  crusades,  is  the  shout  of 
sllla  ilia  sllla,  the  Mahomedaii  coiik'ssion  ot  faith. 

tin  the  laitle  of  Xeres  fou'.ht  by  Don  Roderick  against  the 
Moors  AD.  714.  the  Spaniards  were  defeated  with  great  slaughter, 
and  the  king  himself  was  drowned  in  the  Xeres  while  crossing  it 
in  his  flight.  Orelia,  the  courser  of  Don  Roderick,  was  celebrated 
tor  her  speed  and  form. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


415 


But  never  was  she  turn'd  from  battle  line ; — 

Lo !   vrhere  the  recreant  spurs  o'er  stock  and 

Curses  pursue  the  slave  and  wrath  divine  !  [stone  ! 

Rivers  engulf  him  !"— "  Hush,"  in  shuddering 

tone, 

The  Prelate  said  ;  "  rash  Prince,  yon  vision'd  form's 
thine  own." — 

XXII. 

Just  then,  a  torrent  crossed  the  flier's  course  ; 

The  dangerous  ford  the  Kingly  Likeness  tried; 
But  the  deep  eddies  whelm' d  both  man  and  horse, 

Swept  like  benighted  peasant  down  the  tide ; 
And  the  proud  Moslemah  spread  far  and  wide, 

As  numerous  as  their  native  Idfcust  band ; 
Berber  and  Ismael's  sons  the  spoils  divide, 

With  naked  scimitars  mete  out  the  land, 
And  for  their  bondsmen  base  the  freeborn  natives 
brand. 

XXIII. 

Then  rose  the  grated  Harem,  to  enclose 
The  loveliest  maidens  of  the  Christian  line ; 

Then,  menials  to  their  misbelieving  foes, 
Castile's  young  nobles  held  forbidden  wine ; 

Then,  too,  the  holy  Cross,  salvation's  sign, 
By  impious  hands  was  from  the  altar  thrown, 

And  the  deep  aisles  of  the  polluted  shrine 


The 


Echoed,  for  holy  hymn  and  organ  tone, 
Santon's  frantic  dance,  the  Fakir's  gibbering 


XXIV. 

How  fares  Don  Roderick  ? — E'en  as  one  who  spies 

Flames  dart  their  glare  o'er  midnight's  sable 

woof, 
And  hears  around  his  children's  piercing  cries, 

Aud  sees  the  pale  assistants  stand  aloof; 
While  cruel  Conscience  brings  him  bitter  proof, 

His  folly,  or  his  crime,  have  caused  his  grief ; 
And,  while  above  him  nods  the  crumbling  roof, 

He  curves  earth  and  heaven — himself  in  chief- — 
Desperate  oi  earthly  aid,  despairing  Heaven's  relief ! 


416  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


That  scythe-armed  Giant  turned  his  fatal  glass, 

And  twilight  on  the  landscape  closed  her  wings ; 
Far  to  Asturian  hills  the  war-sounds  pass, 

And  in  their  stead  rebeck  or  timbrel  rings; 
And  to  the  sound  the  bell-deck'd  dancer  springs, 

Bazars  resound  as  when  their  marts  are  met, 
In  tourney  light  the  Moor  his  jerrid  ilings, 

And  on  the  land  a?  evening  seem'd  to  set, 
The    Imaum's   chant  was   heard  from   mosque  or 
minaret. 

XXVI. 

So  pass1  d  that  pageant.     Ere  another  came, 

The  visionary  scene  was  wrapp'd  in  smoke. 
Whose  sulph'rous  wreaths  were  cross' d  by  sheets 

of  flame ; 

With  every  flash  a  bolt  explosive  broke, 
Till  Roderick  deem'd  the  fiends  had  burst  their 

yoke, 
And  waved  'gainst  heaven  the  infernal  gon- 

.alone ! 

For  War  a  new  and  dreadful  language  spoke. 
Never  by  ancient  warrior  heard  or  known  ; 
Lightning  and  smoke  her  breath,  and  thunder  was 
her  tone. 

XXVII. 

From  the  dim  landscape  roll  the  clouds  away— 

The  Christians  have  regain'd  their  heritage ; 
Before  the  Cross  has  waned  the  Crescent's  ray, 

And  many  a  monastery  decks  the  stage, 
And  lofty  church,  and  low-brow' d  hermitage. 

The  land  obeys  a  Hermit  and  a  Knight, — 
The  Genii  these  of  Spain  for  many  an  age ; 

This  clad  in  sackcloth,  that  in  armour  bright, 
And  that  was  VALOUR  named,  this  BIGOTRY  was 
bight. 

XXVIII. 

VALOUR  was  harness'd  like  a  Chief  of  old, 

Ajm'd  at  all  points,  and  prompt  for  knightly  gest ; 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  417 

His  sword  was  temper'd  in  the  Ebro  cold, 
Morena's  eagle-plume  adorn'd  his  crest, 

The  spoils  of  Afric's  lion  bound  his  breast. 

Fierce  he  stepp'd  forward  and  flung  down  his 

As  if  of  mortal  kind  to  brave  the  best.  [gag6! 

Him  follow'd  his  Companion,  dark  and  sage, 
As  he,  my  Master,  sung  the  dangerous  Archirnage. 

XXIX. 

Haughty  of  heart  and  brow  the  Warrior  came, 

In  look  and  language  proud  as  proud  might  be, 
Vaunting  his  lordship,  lineage,  fights  and  fame, 

Yet  was  that  bare-foot  Monk  more  proud  than 
And  as  the  ivy  climbs  the  tallest  tree,  [he  ; 

So  round  the  loftiest  soul  his  toils  he  wound. 
And  with  his  spells  subdued  the  fierce  and  free, 

Till  ermined  Age,  and  Youth  in  arms  renown'd, 
Honouring  bis  scourge  and  hair-cloth,  meekly  kiss'd 
the  ground. 


And  thus  it  chanced  that  VALOUR,  peerless  Knight, 

Who  ne'er  to  King  or  Kaisar  veil'd  his  crest, 
Victorious  still  in  bull-feast,  or  in  fight, 

Since  first  his  limbs  with  mail  he  did  invest, 
Stoop'd  ever  to  that  Anchoret's  behest  ; 

Nor  reason'd  of  the  right  nor  of  the  wrong, 
But  at  his  bidding  laid  the  lance  in  rest, 

And  wrought  fell  deeds  the  troubled  world  along, 
For  he  was  fierce  as  brave,  and  pitiless  as  strong. 

XXXI. 

Oft  his  proud  galleys  sought  some  new  found  world, 

That  latest  sees  the  sun,  or  first  the  morn  ; 
Still  at  that  Wizard's  feet  their  spoils  he  hurl'd,  — 

Ingots  of  ore  from  rich  Potosi  borne, 
Crowns  by  Caciques,  aigrettes  by  Omrahs  worn. 

Wrought  of  rare  gems,  but  broken,  rent,  and 
Idols  of  gold  from  heathen  temples  torn,       [foul  ; 

Bedabbled  all  with  blood.  —  With  grisly  scowl 
The  Hermit  mark'd  the  stilus,  and  smiled  beneath 
his  cowl. 

82 


418  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

XXXII. 

Then  did  he  bless  the  offering,  and  bade  make 

Tribute  to  heaven  of  gratitude  and  praise  ; 
And  at  his  word  the  choral  hymns  awake,    . 

And  many  a  hand  the  silver  censer  sways. 
But  with  the  incense-breath  these  censers  raise, 

Mix  steams  from  corpses  smouldering  in  the  fire  ; 
The  groans  of  prison  'd  victims  mar  the  lays, 

And  shrieks  of  agony  confound  the  quire, 
While,  'mid  the  mingled  sounds,  the  darken'd  scenes 
expire. 

XXXIII. 

Preluding  light,  were  strains  of  music  heard, 

As  once  again  revolved  that  measured  sand; 
Such  sounds  as  when,  for  sylvan  dance  prepared, 

Gay  Xeres  summons  forth  her  vintage  band  ; 
When  foi  the  light  Bolero  ready  stand 

The  Mozo  blithe,  with  gay  Muchacha  met,* 
He  conscious  of  his  broider'd  cap  and  band, 

She  of  her  netted  locks  and  light  corsette, 
Each  tiptoe  perch'  d  to  spring,  and  shake  the  Castanet. 


And  well  such  strains  the  opening  scene  became} 

For  VALOUR  had  relaxed  his  ardent  look, 
And  at  a  lady's  feet,  like  lion  tame, 

Lay  stretch'  d,  full  loth  the  weight  of  aims  to 

brook  ; 
And  soften'd  BIGOTRY,  upon  his  book, 

Patter'd  a  task  of  little  good  or  ill  : 
But  the  blithe  peasant  plied  his  pruning-hook, 

Whistled  the  muleteer  o  er  vale  and  hill, 
And  rung  from  village-green  the  merry  Seguidille. 

XXXV. 

Grey  Royalty,  grown  impotent  of  toil, 
Let  the  grave  sceptre  slip  his  lazy  hold, 

And  careless  saw  his  rule  become  the  spoil 
Of  a  loose  Female  and  her  Minion  bold  ; 

»  The  Bolero  is  a  very  light  and  active  dance,  much  practised 
by  the  Spaniards,  in  which  castanets  are  always  used.  Moxo  aud 
Muchacha  are  equivalent  to  our  phrase  of  lad  and  lost. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  419 

But  peace  was  on  the  cottage  and  the  fold, 

From  court  intrigue,  from  bickering  faction  far , 
Beneath  the  chesnut  tree  Love's  tale  was  told ; 

And  to  the  tinkling  of  the  light  guitar, 
Sweet  stoop  d  the  western  sun,  sweet  rose  the  even- 
ing star. 

XXXVI. 

As  that  sea-cloud,  in  size  like  human  hand 

When  first  from  Carmel  by  the  Tishbite  seen, 
Came  slowly  overshadowing  Israel's  land, 

Awhile,  perchance,  bedeck'd  with  colours  sheen, 
While  yet  the  sunbeams  on  its  skirts  had  been, 

Limning  with  purple  and  with  gold  its  shroud, 
Till  darker  folds  obscured  the  blue  serene, 

And  blotted  heaven  with  one  broad  sable  cloud — 
Then  sheeted  rain  burst  down,  and  whirlwinds  howl'd 
aloud ; — 


^K\en  so  upon  that  peaceful  scene  was  pour'd, 

Like  gathering  clouds,  full  many  a  foreign  band, 
And  HE,  their  Leader,  wore  in  sheath  his  sword, 

And  offer'd  peaceful  front  and  open  hand ; 
Veiling  the  perjured  treachery  he  plann'd, 

By  friendship's  zeal  and  honour's  specious  guise, 
Until  he  won  the  passes  of  the  land ; 
Then,  burst  were  honour's  oath,  and  friendship's 

ties ! 

He  clutch'd  his  vulture-grasp,  and  call'd  fair  Spain 
his  prize. 

XXXVIII. 

An  Iron  Crown  his  anxious  forehead  bore ; 

And  well  such  diadem  his  heart  became, 
Who  ne'er  his  purpose  for  remorse  gave  o'er, 

Or  check'd  his  course  for  piety  or  shame ; 
Who,  train'd  a  soldier,  deem'd  a  soldier's  fame 

Might  flourish  in  the  wreath  of  battles  won, 
Though  neither  truth  nor  honour  deck'd  his  name; 

Who,  placed  by  fortune  on  a  Monarch's  throne, 
Reck'd  not  of  Monarch's  faith,  or  Mercy's  kingly  tone. 


420  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

XXXIX. 

From  a  rude  isle  his  ruder  lineage  came  : 

The  spark,  that,  from  a  suburb  hovel's  hearth 
Ascending,  wraps  some  capital  in  flame, 

Hath  not  a  meaner  or  more  sordid  birth. 
And  for  the  soul  that  bade  him  waste  the  earth — 

The  sahle  land-flood  from  some  swamp  obscure, 
That  poisons  the  glad  husband-field  with  dearth, 

And  by  destruction  bids  its  fame  endure, 
Hath  not  a  source  more  sullen,  stagnant,  and  impure. 

XL. 

Before  that  Leader  strode  a  shadowy  Form  : 

Her  limbs  like  mist,her  torch  like  meteor  show'd, 
With  which  she  beckon'd  him  through  right  and 

storm, 

And  all  he  crush'd  that  cross'd  his  desperate  road, 
Nor  thought,  nor  fear'd,  nor  look'd  on  what  he 

trode  ; 
Realms  could  not  glut  his  pride,  hlood  could  not 

slake, 

So  oft  as  e'er  she  shook  her  torch  abroad — • 
It  was  AMBITION  bade  his  terrors  wake, 
Nor  deign'd  she,  as  of  yore,  a  milder  form  to  take. 

XLI, 

No  longer  now  she  spurn'd  at  mean  revenge, 

Or  stay'd  her  hand  for  conquer' d  foeman  s  moan, 
As  when,  the  fates  of  aged  Rome  to  change, 

By  Caesar's  side  she  cross  d  the  Rubicon  ; 
Nor  joy  d  she  to  bestow  the  spoils  she  won, 

As  when  the  banded  powers  of  Greece  were  task'd 
To  war  beneath  the  Youth  of  Macedon  : 

No  seemly  veil  her  modern  minion  ask'd, 
He  saw  her  hideous  face,  and  loved  the  fiend  uu- 
mask' d. 

XLII. 

That  Prelate  mark'd  his  march — On  banners  blazed 
With  battles  won  in  many  a  distant  land, 

On  eagle-standards  and  on  arms  he  gaz'd ; 
"  And  hop'st  thou,  then,"  he  said,  "  thy  power 
shall  stand? 


THE  VJPTON  OF  DON  RODERICK.  421 

O  thou  hast  builded  on  the  shifting  sand, 

And  thou  hast  temper' d  it  with  slaughter's  flood  ; 

And  know,  fell  scourge  in  the  Almighty's  hand ! 

Gore-moisten'd  trees  shall  perish  in  the  bud, 
And,  by  a  bloody  death,  shall  die  the  Man  of  Blood  !" 

XLIII. 

The  ruthless  Leader  beckon' d  from  his  train 
A  wan  fraternal  Shade,  and  bade  him  kneel, 

And  paled  his  temples  with  the  crown  of  Spain, 
While  trumpets  rang,  and  heralds  cried,  "  Cas- 
tile !"* 

Not  that  he  loved  him — No  ! — in  no  man's  weal, 
Scarce  in  his  own,  e'er  joy'd  that  sullen  heart ; 

Yet  round  that  throne  he  bade  his  warriors  wEeel, 

.That  the  poor  puppet  might  perform  his  part, 

And  be  a  sceptred  slave,  at  his  stem  beck  to  start. 

xuv. 

But  on  the  Natives  of  that  Land  misused, 

Not  long  the  silence  of  amazement  hung, 
Nor  brook  d  they  long  their  friendly  faith  abused ; 

For,  with  a  common  shriek,  the  general  tongue 
Exclaim' d,  "To  arms!"  and  fast  to  arms  they  sprung. 

And  VALOUR  woke,  that  Genius  of  the  laud ! 
Pleasure,  and  ease,  and  sloth,  aside  he  flung, 

As  burst  the  awakening  Nazarite  his  band, 
When  'gainst  his  treacherous  foes  he  clench'd  his 
dreadful  hand. 

XLT. 

That  mimic  Monarch  now  cast  anxious  eye 

Upon  the  Satraps  that  begirt  him  round, 
Now  doff  d  his  royal  robe  in  act  to  fly, 

And  from  his  brow  the  diadem  unbound 
So  oft,  so  near,  the  Patriot  bugle  wound. 

From  Tarik's  walls  to  Bilboa's  mountains  blown 
These  martial  satellites  hard  labour  found, 

To  guard  awhile  his  substituted  throne — 
Light  recking  of  his  cause,  but  battling  for  their  own. 

»  The  heralds  at  the  coronation  of  a  Spanish  monarch  proclaim 
hi«  name  three  times,  and  repeat  tlirfej  time«  the  word  Ctutitla, 


422  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

XLVI. 

From  Alpuhara's  peak  that  bugle  rung, 

And  it  was  echoed  from  Corunna's  wall ; 
Stately  Seville  responsive  war-shout  flung, 

Granada  caught  it  in  her  Moorish  hall ; 
Galicia  hade  her  children  fight  or  fall, 

Wild  Biscay  shook  his  mountain-coronet, 
Valencia  roused  her  at  the  haitle-call, 

And,  foremost  still  where  Valour's  sons  are  met 
Fast  started  to  his  gun  each  fiery  Miquelet. 


But  unappall'd,  and  burning  for  the  fight, 
The  Invaders  march,  of  victory  secure ; 
Skilful  their  force  to  sever  or  unite, 

And  train'd  alike  to  vanquish  or  endure. 
Nor  skilful  less,  cheap  conquest  to  ensure, 
Discord  to  breathe,  and  jealousy  to  sow, 
To  quell  by  boasting,  and  by  bribes  to  lure ; 
While  nought  against  them  bring  the  unprac- 
tised foe, 

Save  hearts  for  freedom's  cause,  and  hands  for  free- 
dom's blow. 

XLVIII. 

Proudly  they  march — but  O  !  they  march  not  forth 

By  one  hot  field  to  crown  a  brief  campaign, 
As  when  their  eagles,  sweeping  through  the  North, 

Pestroy'd  at  every  stoop  an  ancient  reign  ! 
Far  other  fate  had  Heaven  decreed  for  Spain; 

In  vain  the  steel,  in  vain  the  torch  was  plied, 
New  Patriot  armies  started  from  the  slain, 

High  blazed  the  war,  and  long,  and  far,  and  wide, 
And  oft  the  God  of  Battles  bless'd  the  righteous  side. 

XLIX. 

Nor  unatoned,  where  Freedom's  foes  prevail, 
Remain'd  their  savage  waste.     With  blade  and 
brand, 

By  day  the  Invaders  ravaged  hill  and  dale, 
But,  with  the  darkness,  the  Guerilla  band 

Came  like  night's  tempest,  and  avenged  the  land, 
And  claim'd  for  blood  the  retribution  due. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  423 

and  lopp'd  the  murderous 

**£&  when  °'er  tLe  scene  her  beams  sL° 

Midst  ruins  the>  had  nude  the  spoilers'  corpses  knew 

For  ih  ?°Tr  d  b  defeat  «  vi^oty      ' 
*  or  that  sad  pageant  of  events  to  & 


U. 


so  felly  proved,  so  firmly 

jaMW 

v  UI' 


424  THE  VISIOM  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

Mil. 

Nor  thine  alone  such  wreck.     Gerona  fair ! 

Faithful  to  death  thy  heroes  should  be  sung, 
Manning  the  towers  while  o'er  their  heads  the  air 

Swart  as  the  smoke  from  raging  furnace  hung ; 
Now  thicker  darkening  where  the  mine  was  sprung, 

Now  briefly  lighten'd  by  the  cannon's  flare, 
Now  arch'd  with  fire-sparks  as  the  bomb  was  flung, 

And  reddening  now  with  conflagration's  glare, 
While  by  the  fatal  light  the  foes  fo^  storm  prepare. 


While  all  around  was  danger,  strife,  and  fear, 

While  the  earth  shook,  and  darken'd  was  the  sky, 
And  wide  Destruction  stunned  the  listening  ear, 

Appall'd  the  heart,  and  stupified  the  eye, — 
Afar  was  heard  that  thrice-repeated  cry, 

In  which  old  Albion's  heart  and  tongue  unite, 
Whene'er  her  soul  is  up  and  pulse  beats  high, 

Whether  it  hail  the  wine-cup  or  the  fight, 
And  bid  each  arm  he  strong,  or  bid  each  heart  be  light. 


Don  Roderick  turn'd  him  as  the  shout  grew  loud  — 

A  varied  scene  the  changeful  vision  show'd, 
For  where  the  ocean  mingled  with  the  cloud, 

A  gallant  navy  sternm'd  the  biltows  broad. 
From  mast  and  stern  St  George's  symbol  flow'd, 

Blent  with  the  silver  cross  to  Scotland  dear  ; 
Mottling  the  sea  their  landward  barges  row'd, 

And  ilash'd  the  sun  on  bayonet,  brand,  and  spear, 
And  the  wild  beach  retura'dthe  seaman's  jovial  cheer. 


It  was  a  dread,  yet  spi-it-stirring  sight  ! 

The  billows  foam'd  beneath  a  thousand  oars, 
Fast  as  they  land  the  red-cross  ranks  unite, 

Legions  on  legions  brightening  all  the  shores. 
Then  banners  rise,  and  cannon-signal  roars, 

Then  peals  the  warlike  thunder  of  the  drum, 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


425 


Thrills  the  loud  fife,  the  trumpet-flourish  pours, 

And  patriot  hopes  awake,  and  doubts  are  dumb, 
For,  bold  in  Freedom's  cause,  the  bands  of  Ocean 
come! 

tvil. 
A  various  host  they  came — whose  ranks  display 

Each  mode  in  which  the  warrior  meets  the  fight, 
The  deep  battalion  locks  its  firm  array, 

And  meditates  his  aim  the  marksman  light ; 
Far  glance  the  lines  of  sabres  flashing  bright, 
Where  mounted  squadrons  shake  the  echoing 

mead, 
Lacks^ot  artillery  breathing  flame  and  night, 

Nor  the  fleet  ordnance  whirl'd  by  rapid  steed, 
That  rivals  lightning's  flash  in  ruin  and  in  speed. 

LVIII. 

A  various  host— from  kindred  realms  they  came, 

Brethren  in  arms,  but  rivals  in  renown — 
For  yon  fair  bands  shall  merry  England  claim, 

And  with  their  deeds  of  valour  deck  her  crown. 
Hers  their  bold  port,  and  hers  their  martial  frown, 
And  hers  their  scorn  of  death  in  freedom's  cause, 
Their  eyes  of  azure,  and  their  locks  of  brown, 

And  the  blunt  speech  that  bursts  without  a  pause, 
And  freeborn  thoughts,  which  league  the  Soldier 
with  the  Laws. 

VOL. 
And  O!  loved  warriors  of  the  Minstrel's  land! 

Yonder  your  bonnets  nod,  your  tartans  wave! 
The  rugged  form  may  mark  the  mountain  band, 
And  harsher  features,  and  a  mien  more  grave ; 
But  ne'er  in  battle-field  throbb'd  heart  so  brave 

As  that  which  beats  beneath  the  Scottish  plaid, 
And  when  the  pibroch  bids  the  battle  rave,  _ 

And  level  for  the  charge  your  arms  are  laid, 
Where  lives  the  desperate  foe,  that  for  such  onset 
Btaid!   ' 

LX. 

Hark !  from  yon  stately  ranks  what  laughter  rings, 
Mingling  wild  mirth  with  war's  stern  minstrelsy, 


426  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

His  jest  while  each  blithe  comrade  round  him  flings, 

And  moves  to  death  with  military  glee  : 
Boast,  Erin,  boast  them  !  tameless,  frank,  and  free, 
In  kindness  warm,  and  fierce  in  danger  known, 
Rough  Nature's  children,  humorous  as  she: 
And   HE,  yon  Chieftain  —  strike  the  proudest 

tone 
Of  thy  bold  harp,  green  Isle  !  —  the  Hero  is  tkjie  own. 

LXI. 

Now  on  the  scene  Vimeira  should  be  shown, 
On  Talavera's  fight  should  Roderick  gaze, 
And  hear  Corunna  wail  her  battle  won, 

And  see  Busaco's  crest  with  light'ning  blaze  :— 
But  shall  fond  fable  mix  with  heroes'  praise  ? 
Hath  Fiction's  stage  for  Truth's  long  triumphs 

room? 
And  dare  her  wild-flowers  mingle  with  the  bays, 

That  claim  a  long  eternity  to  bloom 
Around  the  warrior's  crest,  and  o'er  the  warrior's 
tomb  ! 


Or  may  I  give  adventurous  Fancy  scope, 

And  stretch  a  bold  hand  to  the  awful  veil 
That  hides  futurity  from  anxious  hope, 

Bidding  beyond  it  scenes  of  glory  hail, 
And  painting  Europe  rousing  at  the  tale 

Of  Spain's  invaders  from  her  confines  hurl'd, 
While  kindling  Nations  buckle  on  their  mail, 

And  Fame,  with   clarion-blast  and  wings  un- 

furl'd, 
To  freedom  and  revenge  awakes  an  injured  World. 

LXI1I. 

O  vain,  though  anxious,  is  the  glance  I  cast, 

Since  Fate  has  mavk'd  futurity  her  own  :  —  • 
Yet  Fate  resigns  to  W  orth  the  glorious  past, 

The  deeds  recorded  and  the  laurels  won. 
Then,  though  the  Vault  of  Destiny  be  gone, 

King,  Prelate,  all  the  phantasms  of  my  brain, 
Melted  away  like  mist-  wreaths  in  the  sun, 

Yet  grant  for  faith,  for  valour,  and  for  Spain, 
One  note  of  pride  and  fire,  a  Patriot's  parting  strain. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK.  427 


CONCLUSION. 
I. 

"Who  shall  command  Estrella's  mountain-tide 

Back  to  the  source,  when  tempest-chafed,  to  hie  ? 
Who,  -when  Gascogne's  vexed  gulf  is  raging  wide, 

Shall  hush  it  as  a  nurse  her  infant's  cry  ? 
His  magic  power  let  such  vain  boaster  try, 

And  when  the  torrent  shall  his  voice  obey, 
And  Biscay's  whirlwinds  list  his  lullaby, 

Let  him  stand  forth  and  bar  mine  eagles*  way, 
And  they  shall  heed  his  voice,  and  at  his  bidding 
Stay. 

II. 

u  Else,  ne'er  to  stoop,  till  high  on  Lisbon's  towers 

They  close  their  wings,  thp  symbol  of  our  yoke, 

And  their  own  sea  hath  whelm'd  yon  red-cross 

Power!' — 

Thus,  on  the  summit  of  Alverca's  rock, 
To  Marshal,  Duke,  and  Peer,  Gaul's  leader  spoke. 
While  downward  on  the  land  his  legions  press, 
Before  them  it  was  rich  with  vine  and  flock, 

And  smiled  like  Eden  in  her  summer  dress ; — 
Behind  their  wasteful  march,  a  reeking  wilderness.* 

III. 

And  shall  the  hoastful  Chief  maintain  his  word, 
Though  Heaven  hath  heard  the  wailings  of  the 

land. 

Though  Lusitania  whet  her  vengeful  sword, 
Though  Britons  arm,  and  WELLINGTON  com- 
mand ! 
No :  grim  Busaco's  iron  ridge  shall  stand 

An  adamantine  barrier  to  his  force  ! 
And  from  its  base  shall  wheel  his  shatter' d  band, 
As  from  the  unshaken  rock  the  torrent  hoarse 
Bears  off  its  broken  waves,  and  seeks  a  devious 
course. 

*  I  have  ventured  to  apply  to  the  movements  of  the  French  army 
that  sublime  passage  in  the  prophecies  of  Joel,  Chnp.  U.  3.  "  A  lire 
devoureth  before  them,  and  behind  them  a  flame  burneth:  the 
land  is  as  the  garden  of  Eden  before  them,  and  behind  thema 
desolate  wilderness,  yea.  and  nothing  shall  escape  them." 


428  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

IT. 

Yet  not  because  Alcoba's  mountain-hawk 

Hath  on  his  best  and  bravest  made  her  food, 
In  numbers  confident,  yon  Chief  shall  baulk 

His  Lord's  imperial  thirst  for  spoil  and  blood : 
For  full  in  view  the  promised  conquest  stood, 
And  Lisbon's  matrons,  from  their  walls,  might 

sum 

The  myriads  that  had  half  the  world  subdued, 
And  hear  the  distant  thunders  of  the  drum, 
That  bids  the  band  of  France  to  storm  and  havoc 
come. 

v. 

Four  moons  have  heard  these  thunders  idly  roll'd, 

Have  seen  these  wistful  myriads  eye  their  prey, 
As  famish' d  wolves  survey  a  guarded  fold — 

But  in  the  middle  path,  a  Lion  lay ! 
At  length  they  move — but  not  to  battle-fray, 

Nor  blaze  yon  fires  where  meets  the  manly  fight ; 
Beacons  of  infamy,  they  light  the  way, 

Where  cowardice  and  cruelty  unite, 
To  damn  with  double  shame  their  ignominious  flight ! 

VI. 

0  triumph  for  the  Fiends  of  Lust  and  wrath  ! 

Ne'er  to  be  told,  yet  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
What  wanton  horrors  mark'd  th-.'ir  wrackful  path! 

The  peasant  butcher'd  in  his  ruin'd  cot, 
The  hoary  priest  even  at  the  altar  shot, 

Childhood  and  age  given  o'er  to  sword  and  Hame, 
Woman  to  infamy ;  no  crime  forgot, 

By  which  inventive  daemons  might  proclaim 
Immortal  hate  to  Man,  and  scorn  of  God's  great 
name ! 

tn. 

The  rudest  sentinel,  in  Britain  born, 

With  horror  paused  to  view  the  havoc  done, 

Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch  forlorn,* 
Wiped  his  stern  eye,  then  fiercer  grasp'd  his  gun. 

»  Even  the  unexampled  gallantry  of  the  British  army  in  the 
campaign  of  1S10-H,  although  they  never  fought  but  to  conquer, 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  BODERICK. 

Nor  with  less  zeal  shall  Britain's  peaceful  son 
Exult  the  debt  of  sympathy  to  pay  ; 


b"d*  ""•  "ort 

less  lay. 


VIII. 


Fromthy  dishonoured  name  and  arms  to ^clear- 
Fallen  Child  of  Fortune,  turn,  redeem  her  favour 
here  !t 

IX. 

Yet  ere  thou  turn'st,  collect  each  distant  aid  : 

Those  chief  that  never  heard  the  L">n  roar ! 

Within  whose  souls  lives  not  a  trace  portray  d, 


O  vainly  gleams  with  steel  Agueda's  shore 
Vainly  thy  squadrons  hide  Assuava  t  plain, 

And  front  the  ttving  thunders  »s  they  roar, 

With  frantic  charge  and  tenfold  odds,  in  yam! 

And  wharavails  thee  that,  for  Cameron  slam, 
WUdfrom  hisplaided  ranks  the  yell  was  given- 


^  do  the,,,  ,-  Honour  in  UUtor^ 
ftuiished  bpaiuards.   »*om  they^  le 


ff^i^ 

t  Ma.«eua.  truq-.entlv  ..ll  L     l^  ^    wouodea   mort^Uy  d-irui 

*  rSSSTfaSTSS^  of  the  village  caUed  Ku^t 


430  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

Vengeance  and  grief  gave  mountain  rage  the  rein, 
And,  at  the  bloody  spear-point  headlong  driven, 
Thy  Despot's   giant  guards   tied  like  the   rack  of 
heaven. 

XI. 

Go,  haffled  Boaster !  teach  thy  haughty  mood 

To  plead  at  thine  imperious  master  s  throne ! 
Sav,  thou  hast  left  his  legions  in  their  blood, 

Deceived  his  hopes,  and  frustrated  thine  own; 
Say,  that  thine  utmost  skill  and  valour  shown 

By  British  skill  and  valour  were  outvied; 
Last  say,  thy  conqueror  was  WELLINGTON  ! 

And  .if  he  chafe,  be  his  own  fortune  tried — 
God  and  our  cause  to  friend,  the  venture  we'll  abide. 

XII. 

But  ye,  the  heroes  of  that  well-fought  day, 

How  shall  a  bard,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
His  meed  to  each  victorious  leader  pay, 

Or  bind  on  every  brow  the  laurels  won  ? 
.    Yet  fain  my  harp  would  wake  its  boldest  tone, 

O'er  the  wide  sea  to  hail  CADOGAN  brave; 
And  he,  perchance,  the  minstrel  note  might  own, 

Mindful  of  meeting  brief  that  Fortune  gave 
'Mid  yon  far  western  isles,  that  hear  the  Atlantic 
rave. 

Xili. 

Yes !  hard  the  task,  when  Britons  wield  the  sword, 

To  give  each  Chief  and  every  field  its  fame : 
Hark  !  Albuera  thunders  BERESFORD, 

And  red  Barossa  shouts  for  dauntless  GRAEME! 
O  for  a  verse  of  tumult  and  of  flame, 

Bold  as  the  bursting  of  their  cannon  sound, 
To  bid  the  world  re-echo  to  their  fame ! 

For  never,  upon  gory  battie-ground, 
With   conquest's   well-bought   wreath  were  braver 
victors  crowned ! 

d'Honoro      He  fell  at  the  head  of  his  native  Highlanders,  the  7!»t 
and  79th,  ivlio  raised  a  dreadful  shriek  of  grief  and  ra«e.     They 

diers  ever  seeu,  being  a  part  of  Buonaparte's  selecte.    -unnl,  and 
bore  them  out  of  the  contested  ground  at  the  point  of  t.  - 1  bayonet. 


THE  VISION  OP  DON  RODERICK.  43J 


O  who  shall  grudge  him  Albuera's  bays, 

Who  brought  a  race  regenerate  to  the  field, 
Roused  them  to  emulate  their  fathers'  praise, 

Temper'd  their  headlong  rage,  their  courage 

steel'd,* 
And  raised  fair  Lusitania's  fallen  shield, 

And  gave  new  edge  to  Lusitania's  sword, 
And  taught  her  sons  forgotten  arms  to  wield — 

Shiver' d  my  harp,  and  hurst  its  every  chord, 
If  it  forget  thy  worth,  victorious  BERESFORD  ! 

xv. 

Not  on  that  bloody  field  of  battle  won, 

Though  Gaul's  proud  legions  roll'd  like  mist 

away, 

Was  half  his  self-devoted  valour  shown, — 
He  gaged  but  life  on  that  illustrious  day; 
But  when  he  toil'd  those  squadrons  to  array, 

Who  fought  like  Britons  in  the  bloody  game, 
Sharper  than  Polish  pike  or  assagay, 

He  braved  the  shafts  of  censure  and  of  shame, 
And,   dearer  far  than  life,  he  pledged  a  soldier's 
fame. 

XVI. 

Nor  be  his  praise  o'erpass'd  who  strove  to  hide 

Beneath  the  warrior's  vest  affection's  wound. 
Whose  wish,  Heaven  for  his  country's  weal  denied; 

Danger  and  fate  he  sought,  but  glory  found. 
From  clime   to  clime,  where'er  war's  trumpets 
sound, 

The  wanderer  went ;  yet,  Caledonia !  still 
Thine  was  his  thought  in  march  and  tented  ground; 

He  dreamed  'mid  Alpine  cliffs  of  Athole's  hill, 
And  heard  in  Ebro's  roar  his  Lyndoch's  lovely  rilL 

*  Fielil- \farshal  Beresford,  wa<  contented  to  undertake  all  the 
hazard  of  obl"(]uv  which  might  have  been  founded  upon  any  mla- 
carriaire  in  the  highly  important  experiment  of  training  the  Por- 
fujruese  troop*  to  an' improved  state  of  discipline.  His  generous 
devotednesa  was  amply  rewarded  by  the  conduct  and,  valour  of 
the  soldiers  during  the  whole  course  of  the  war. 


432  THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 

XVII. 

0  hero  of  a  race  renown'd  of  old, 

Whose  war-cry  oft  has  waked  the  battle-swell,* 
Since  first  distinguished  in  the  onset  bold, 

Wild  sounding  when  the  Roman  rampart  fell ! 
By  Wallace'  side  it  rung  the  Southron's  knell, 

Alderne,  Kilsythe,  and  Tibber  own'd  its  fame, 
Tummell  s  rude  pass  can  of  its  terrors  tell, 

But  ne'er  from  prouder  field  arose  the  name, 
Than  when  wild  Ronda  learn'd  the  conquering 
shout  of  GRAEME  ! 

XVIII. 

But  all  too  long,  through  seas  unknown  and  dark, 

(With  Spenser's  parable  I  close  my  tale) 
By  shoal  and  rock  hath  steer'd  my  venturous  bark ; 

And  land- ward  now  I  drive  before  the  gale, 
And  now  the  blue  and  distant  shore  I  hail, 

And  nearer  now  I  see  the  port  expand, 
And  now  I  gladly  furl  my  weary  sail, 

And,  as  the  prow  light  touches  on  the  strand, 
I  strike  my  red-cross  flag,  and  bind  my  skiff  to  land. 

*  This  stanza  alludes  to  the  various  achievements  of  the  warlike 
family  of  Graeme,  or  Grahame.  They  are  said,  to  have  descended 
from  the  Scottish  chief,  under  whose  command  his  countrvmeu 
itormed  the  wall  built  by  the  Emperor  Severus.  Sir  John  the 
Grahame, "  the  hardy  wight  and  wise,"  is  well  known  as  the  friend 
of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Alderne,  Kilsyth,  and  Tibbermuir,  ware 
scenes  of  the  victories  of  the  heroic  Marquis  of  Mnntrnse.  The 
pa«i  of  Killy-crankie  is  famous  for  the  action  between  tv'mg  Wilp 
Lam's  forces  and  the  Highlanders  in  1689. 

"  Where  glad  Dundee  in  faint  huzza*  expired.* 


ROKEB  Y; 


IN  STX  CANTOS. 


TO 

JOHN   R.    S.   MORRITT,   ESQ. 
THIS  POEM, 

THE    SCENE    OF    WHICH    IS    LAID    IN    HIS    BEAUTIFUL 
DEMESNE  OF   ROKEBY, 

IS    INSCRIBED, 

IN   TOKEN   OF   SINCERE    FRIENDSHIP, 
BY 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
Dec.  31,  1812. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  scene  of  this  poem  is  laid  at  Rokeby,  near 
Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  and  shifts  to  the  adjacent 
fortress  of  Barnard  Castle,  and  to  other  places  in  that 
vicinity. 

The  time  occupied  by  the  action  is  a  space  of  five 
days,  three  of  which  are  supposed  to  elapse  between 
the  end  of  the  Fifth  and  beginning  of  the  Sixth  Canto. 

The  date  of  the  supposed  events  is  immediately 
subsequent  to  the  great  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  3d 
July,  1644.  This  period  of  public  confusion  has  been 
chosen,  without  any  puipose  of  combining  the  Fable 
with  the  Military  or  Political  Events  of  the  Civil  War, 
but  only  as  affording  a  degree  of  probability  to  the 
fictitious  narrative  now  presented  to  the  Public. 


ROKEBY. 


CANTO  FIRST. 

i. 

THE  Moon  is  in  her  summer  glow, 
But  hoarse  and  high  the  breezes  blow, 
And,  racking  o'er  her  face,  the  cloud 
Varies  the  tincture  of  her  shroud ; 
On  Barnard's  towers,  and  Tees's  stream,* 
She  changes  as  a  guilty  dream, 
When  Conscience,  with  remorse  and  fear, 
Goads  sleeping  Fancy's  wild  career. 
Her  light  seems  now  the  blush  of  shame, 
Seems  now  fierce  anger's  darker  flame, 
Shifting  that  shade,  to  come  and  go, 
Like  apprehension's  hurried  glow ; 
Then  sorrow's  livery  dims  the  air, 
And  dies  in  darkness,  like  despair. 
Such  varied  hues  the  warder  sees 
Reflected  from  the  woodland  Tees, 
Then  from  old  Baliol's  tower  looks  forth, 
Sees  the  clouds  mustering  in  the  north, 
Hears,  upon  turret-roof  and  wall, 
By  fits  the  plashing  rain-drop  fall, 
Lists  to  the  breeze  s  boding  sound, 
And  wraps  his  shaggy  mantle  round, 

*  The  one*  magnificent  fortress  of  Barnard  Castle  derives  it« 
name  fr»m  iti  founder.  Bainanl  Balinl,  the  ancestor  nf  the  short 
and  unfortunate  dynasty  of  that  name,  which  succeeded  to  the 
Scottish  throne  under  the  pxtromge  of  Kdward  I.  and  Edward 
III.  Baliol'i  Tower,  -ifterirards  mentioned  in  the  poem,  is  a  round 
lower  of  great  sue,  situated  at  the  western  extremity  of  the  build- 
ing. The  prospect  from  the  top  of  the  Tower  commands  a  rich  and 
magnificent  view  oi  the  wooded  valley  of  the  Tee*. 


436  KOKEBY.  '    CCANTO  L 

II. 

Those  towers,  which  in  the  changeful  gleam 
Throw  murky  shadows  on  the  stream, 
Those  towers  of  Barnard  hold  a  guest, 
The  emotions  of  whose  troubl'd  breast, 
In  wild  and  strange  ciiifvisioa  dri  <sn, 
Rival  the  flitting  rack  of  heaven. 
Ere  sleep  stern  OSWALD'S  senses  tied, 
Oft  had  he  chang'd  his  weary  side, 
Compos'd  his  limbs  and  vainly  sought 
By  effort  strong  to  banish  thought. 
Sleep  came  at  length,  but  with  a  train 
Of  feelings  true  and  fancies  vain, 
Mingling,  in  wild  disorder  cast, 
The  expected  future  with  the  past. 
Conscience,  anticipating  time, 
Already  rues  the  enacted  crime, 
And  calls  her  furies  forth,  to  shake 
The  sounding  scourge  and  hissing 
While  her  poor  victim's  outward  throes 
Bear  witness  to  his  mental  woes, 
And  show  what  lesson  may  be  read 
Beside  a  sinner's  restless  bed. 

III. 

Thus  Oswald's  labouring  feelings  trace 
Strange  changes  in  his  sleeping  face, 
Rapid  and  ominous  as  these 
With  which  the  moonbeams  tinge 
There  might  be  seen  of  shame  the  blush, 
There  anger's  dark  and  fiercer  flush, 
While  the  perturbed  sleeper's  hand 
Seem'd  grasping  dagger-knife,  or  brand. 
Relax'd  that  grasp,  the  heavy  sigh, 
The  tear  in  the  half-opening  eye, 
The  pallid  cheek  and  brow  confess'd 
That  grief  was  busy  in  his  breast ; 
Nor  paus'd  that  mood — a  sudden  start  ' 
Impell'd  the  life-blood  from  the  heart : 
Features  convuls'd,  and  mutterings  dread, 
Show  terror  reigns  in  sorrow's  stead. 
That  pang  the  painful  slumber  broke, 
And  Oswald  with  a  start  awoke. 


CANTO  L]  BOKEBY. 

IT. 

He  -woke,  and  fear'd  again  to  close 
His  eyelids  in  such  dire  repose ; 
He  -woke,—  to  watch  the  lamp,  and  tell 
From  hour  to  hour  the  castle- bell. 
Or  listen  to  tbe  owlet's  cry, 
Or  the  sad  breeze  that  whistles  by, 
Or  catch,  by  fits,  the  tuneless  rhyme 
With  which  the  warder  cheats  the  time. 
And  envying  think,  how,  when  the  sun 
Bids  the  poor  soldier's  watch  be  done, 
Couch'd  on  his  straw,  and  fancy-free, 
He  sleeps  like  careless  infancy. 

T. 

Far  town- ward  sounds  a  distant  tread, 
And  Oswald,  startirg  from  his  bed, 
Hath  caught  it,  though  no  human  ear, 
Unsharpen'd  by  revenge  and  fear, 
Could  e  er  distinguish  norse's  clank, 
Until  it  reach'd  the  castle  bank. 
Now  nigh  and  plain  the  sound  appears, 
The  warder's  challenge  now  he  hears, 
Then  clanking  chain.s  and  levers  tell, 
That  o'er  the  moat  the  drawbridge  fell, 
And,  in  the  castle  court  below, 
Voices  are  heard,  and  torches  glow, 
As  marshalling  the  stranger's  way, 
Straight  for  the  room  where  Oswald  lay 
The  cry  was, — "  Tidings  from  the  host, 
Of  weight — a  messenger  comes  post." 
Stifling  the  tumult  of  his  breast, 
His  answer  Oswald  thus  expressed— 
"  Bring  food  and  wine,  and  trim  the  fire ; 
Admit  the  stranger,  and  retire." 

VI. 

The  stranger  came  with  heavy  stride, 
The  morion's  plumes  his  visage  hide, 
And  the  buff-coat,  an  ample  fold, 
Mantles  his  form's  gigantic  mould.* 

*  The  use  of  complete  suits  of  armour  wa«  fallen  into  dlsuie 
daring  the  Civil  War,  though  they  werr  still  worn  by  leaders  of 
rank  and  importance.  Buff-coats  continued  to  be  worn  by  tli 
city  trained- bauds  till  near  the  middle  of  the  last  century. 


438  KOKEBT.  [CAKTO 1 

Full  slender  answer  deipned  he 

To  Oswald's  anxious  courtesy, 

But  mark'd,  by  a  disdainful  smile, 

He  saw  and  scorn'd  the  petty  wile, 

When  Oswald  chang'd  the  torch  s  place, 

Anxious  that  on  the  soldier's  face 

Its  partial  lustre  might  be  thrown, 

f  o  show  his  looks,  yet  hide  his  own. 

His  guest,  the  while,  laid  low  aside 

The  ponderous  cloak  of  tough  bull's  hide, 

And  to  the  torch  glanc'd  broad  and  clear 

The  corslet  of  a  cuirassier ; 

Then  from  his  brows  the  casque  he  drew, 

And  from  the  dank  plume  dash'd  the  dew, 

From  gloves  of  mail  reliev'd  his  hands, 

And  spread  them  to  the  kindling  brands, 

And,  turning  to  the  genial  board, 

Without  a  health,  or  pledge,  or  word 

Of  meet  and  social  reverence  said. 

Deeply  he  drank,  aim  herceiy  lea; 

As  free  from  ceremony's  sway, 

As  famish' d  wolf  that  tears  his  prey. 


With  deep  impatience,  tinged  with  fear, 
His  host  beheld  him  gorge  his  cheer, 
And  quaff  the  full  carouse,  that  lent 
His  brow  a  fiercer  hardiment. 
Now  Oswald  stood  a  space  aside, 
Now  pac'd  the  room  with  hasty  stride, 
In  feverish  agony  to  learn 
Tidings  of  deep  and  dread  concern, 
Cursing  each  moment  that  his  guest 
Protracted  o'er  his  ruffian  feast. 
Yet  viewing  with  alarm,  at  last, 
The  end  of  that  uncouth  repast, 
Almost  he  seem'd  their  haste  to  rue, 
As,  at  his  sign,  his  train  withdrew, 
And  left  him  with  the  stranger,  free 
To  question  of  his  mystery. 
Then  did  his  silence  long  proclaim 
A  struggle  between  fear  and  shame; 


CANTO  tj  ROKEBf .  439 

Tin. 

Much  in  the  stranger's  mien  appears, 
To  justify  suspicious  fears. 
On  his  dark  face  a  scorching  clime, 
And  toil,  had  done  the  work  of  time, 
Roughen'd  the  brow,  the  temples  bar'd, 
And  sable  hairs  \vith  silver  shar'd, 
Yet  left — what  age  alone  could  tame — • 
The  lip  of  pride,  the  eye  of  flame  ; 
The  full-drawn  iip  that  upward  curl'd, 
The  eve,  that  seem'd  to  scorn  the  world. 
That  lip  had  terror  never  blench'd ; 
Ne'er  in  that  eye  hath  tear-drop  quench'd 
The  flash  severe  of  swarthy  glow, 
That  mock'd  at  pain,  and  knew  not  woe. 
Inur'd  to  danger's  direst  form, 
Tornade  and  earthquake,  flood  and  storm, 
Death  had  he  seen  by  sudden  blow, 
By  wasting  plague,  by  tortures  slow,* 
By  mine  or  breach,  by  steel  or  ball, 
Knew  all  his  shapes,  and  scorn'd  them  all. 

IX. 

But  yet,  though  BERTRAM'S  harden'd  look 
Unmov'd  could  blood  and  danger  brook, 
Still  worse  than  apathy  had  place 
On  his  swart  brow  and  callous  face ; 
For  evil  passions,  cherish'd  long, 
Had  plough' d  them  with  impression  strong. 
All  that  gives  gloss  to  sin,  all  gay 
Light  folly,  past  with  youth  away, 
But  rooted  stood,  in  manhood's  hour, 
The  weeds  of  vice  without  their  flower. 
And  yet  the  soil  in  which  they  grew, 
Had  it  been  tam'd  when  life  was  new, 
Had  depth  and  vigour  to  bring  forth 
The  hardier  fruits  of  virtuous  worth. 

*  The  successes  of  the  English  in  the  predatory  incursions  upon 
Spanish  America,  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had  never  been 
forgotten ;  and,  from  that  period  downward,  the  exploits  of  Drake 
and  Raleigh  were  imitated,  upon.a  smaller  scale  indeed,  but  with 
•qually  desperate  valour,  by  small  bands  of  pirates,  gathered  from 
all  nations,  but  chiefly  French  and  English.  The  character  of 
Bertram  is  copied  from  those  qualities  by  which  the  bucauien 
were  generally  distinguished. 


440  '  BOKEBT.  CCANTO  I. 

Not  that,  e'en  then,  his  heart  had  known 
The  gentler  feelings'  kindly  tone ; 
But  lavish  waste  had  been  refin'd 
To  hounty  in  his  chasten'd  mind, 
And  lust  of  gold,  that  waste  to  feed, 
Been  lost  in  love  of  glory's  meed, 
And,  frantic  then  no  more,  his  pride 
Had  ta'en  fair  virtue  for  its  guide. 


Even  now,  hy  conscience  unrestrained, 
Clogg'd  by  gross  vice,  hy  slaughter  stain' d, 
Still  Knew  his  daring  soul  to  soar, 
And  mastery  o'er  the  mind  he  here ; 
For  meaner  guilt,  or  heart  less  hard, 
Quail'd  beneath  Bertram's  bold  regard. 
And  this  felt  Oswald,  while  in  vain 
He  strove,  by  many  a  winding  train, 
To  lure  his  sullen  guest  to  show, 
Unask'd,  the  news  he  long'd  to  know, 
While  on  far  other  subject  hung 
His  heart,  than  falter' d  from  his  tongue. 
Yet  nought  for  ths  t  his  guest  did  deign 
To  note  or  spare  his  secret  pain, 
But  still,  in  stern  and  stubborn  sort, 
Return'd  him  answer  dark  and  short, 
Or  started  from  the  theme,  to  range 
In  loose  digression  wild  and  strange, 
And  forc'd  the  embarrass'd  host  to  buy, 
By  query  close,  direct  reply. 

XI. 

A  while  he  gloz'd  upon  the  cause 
Of  Commons,  Covenant,  pnd  Laws, 
And  Church  Reform 'd — but  felt  rebu 
Beneath  grim  Bertram's  sneering  look, 
Then  stammer  d — "  Has  a  field  been  fought  ? 
Has  Bertram  news  of  battle  brought  ? 
For  sure  a  soldier,  famed  so  far 
tn  foreign  fields  for  feats  of  war, 
On  eve  of  fight  ne'er  left  the  host, 
ntil  the  field  were  won  and  lost."— 


CANTO  I.J  ROH.EBY.  441 

"  Here,  in  your  towers  by  circling  Tees, 

You,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  rest  at  ease ; 

Why  deem  it  strange  that  others  come 

To  share  such  safe  and  easy  home, 

From  fields  where  danger,  death  and  toil, 

Are  the  reward  of  civil  broil?" — 

"  Nay,  mc>ck  not,  friend  !  since  well  we  know 

The  near   .dvances  of  the  foe, 

To  mar  our  northern  army's  work, 

Encamp' d  before  beleaguer' d  York ; 

Thy  horse  with  valiant  Fairfax  lay, 

And  must  have  fought — how  went  the  day  ?" — • 

XII. 

"  Wouldst  hear  the  tale  ? — On  Marston  heath 
Met,  front  to  front,  the  ranks  of  death ; 
Flourished  the  trumpets  fierce,  and  now 
Fir'd  was  each  eye,  and  flush'd  each  brow ; 
On  either  side  loud  clamours  ring, 
'  God  and  the  Cause  !' — '  God  and  the  King  !' 
Right  English  all,  they  msh'd  to  blows, 
With  nought  to  win,  and  all  to  lose. 
I  could  have  laugh' d-  -but  lack'd  the  time — • 
To  see,  in  phreuesy  sublime, 
How  the  fierce  zealots  fought  and  bled, 
For  king  or  btate,  as  humour  led ; 
Some  for  a  dream  of  public  good, 
Some  for  church- tippet,  gown  and  hood, 
Draining  their  veins,  in  death  to  claim 
A  patriot's  or  a  martyr's  name — 
Led  Bertram  Risingham  the  hearts, 
That  counter'd  there  on  adverse  parts, 
No  superstitious  fool  had  I 
Sought  El  Dorados  in  the  sky  ! 
Chili  had  heard  me  through  her  states, 
And  Lima  op'd  her  silver  gates, 
Rich  Mexico  I  had  march'd  through, 
And  sack  d  the  splendours  of  Peru, 
Till  sunk  Pizarro's  daring  name. 
And,  Cortez,  thine,  in  Bertram's  fame." — 
"  Still  from  the  purpose  wilt  thou  stray ! 
Good  gentle  friend,  how  weut  the  day  f 
T2 


442  K0KEBY.  [CANTt)  I 


"  Good  am  I  deem'd  at  trumpet-sound, 

And  good  where  goblets  dance  the  round, 

Though  gentle  ne'er  was  join'd,  till  now, 

With  rugged  Bertram's  breast  and  brow.— 

But  I  resume.     The  battle's  rage 

Was  like  the  strife  which  currents  wage 

Where  Orinoco,  in  his  pride, 

Rolls  to  the  main  no  tribute  tide, 

But  'gainst  broad  ocean  urges  far 

A  rival  sea  of  roaring  war  ; 

While,  in  ten  thousand  eddies  driven, 

The  billows  fling  their  foam  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  pilot  seeks  in  vain, 

Where  rolls  the  rive/,  where  the  main. 

Even  thus  upon  the  bloody  field, 

The  eddying  tides  of  conflict  wheel'd 

Ambiguous,  till  that  heart  of  flame, 

Hot  Rupert,  on  our  squadrons  came, 

Hurling  against  our  spears  a  line 

Of  gallants,  fiery  as  their  wine ; 

Then  ours,  though  stubborn  in  their  zeal, 

In  zeal's  despite  began  to  reel. 

What  wouldst  thou  more  ? — in  tumult  tost, 

Our  leaders  fell,  our  ranks  were  lost. 

A  thousand  men,  who  drew  the  sword 

For  both  the  Houses  and  the  Word, 

Preach  d  forth  from  hamlet,  grange,  and  down, 

To  curb  the  crosier  and  the  crown, 

Now,  stark  and  stiff,  lie  stretch'd  in  gore, 

And  ne'er  shall  rail  at  mitre  more. — • 

Thus  far'd  it,  when  I  left  the  fight, 

With  the  good  Cause  and  Commons'  right." — 


"  Disastrous  news  !"  dark  Wycliffe  said ; 
Assum'd  despondence  bent  his  head, 
While  troubl'd  joy  was  in  his  eye, 
The  well-feign'd  sorrow  to  belie. — 
"  Disastrous  news  ! — when  needed  most, 
Told  ye  not  that  your  chiefs  were  lost  ? 


CANTO  I.]  ROKEBTt  443 

Complete  the  woful  tale,  and  saj, 

Who  fell  upon  that  fatal  day ; 

What  leaders  of  repute  and  name 

Bought  by  their  death  a  deathless  fame. 

If  such  my  direst  foeman's  doom, 

My  tears  shall  dew  his  honour'd  tomb. — 

No  answer? — Friend,  of  all  our  host, 

Thou  know'st  whom  I  should  hate  the  most, 

Whom  thou  too,  once,  were  wont  to  hate, 

Yet  leav'st  me  doubtful  of  his  fate." — 

With  look  unmov'd, — "  Of  friend  or  foe, 

Aught,"  answer'd  Bertram,  "  wouldst  thou  know, 

Demand  in  simple  terms  and  plain, 

A  soldier's  answer  shall  thou  gain ; 

For  question  dark,  or  riddle  high, 

I  have  nor  judgment  nor  reply. ' 


The  wrath  his  art  and  fear  suppress' d, 
Now  blaz'd  at  once  in  Wyclitfe's  breast ; 
And  brave,  from  man  so  meanly  born, 
Rous'd  his  hereditary  scorn. 
"  Wretch  !  hast  thou  paid  thy  bloody  debt  ? 
PHILIP  OF  MORTHAM,  lives  he  yet  ? 
False  to  thy  patron  or  thine  oath, 
Trait'rous  or  perjur'd,  one  or  both. 
Slave  !  hast  thou  kept  thy  promise  plight, 
To  slay  thy  leader  in  the  fight?'' 
Then  from  his  seat  the  soldier  sprung, 
And  Wycliffe's  hand  he  strongly  wrung; 
His  grasp,  as  hard  as  glove  of  mail, 
Forc'd  the  red  blood-drop  from  the  nail — 
"  A  health  !"  he  cried  ;  and,  ere  he  quaft'd, 
Flung  from  him  Wycliffe's  hand,  and  laugh'd : 
— "  Now,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  speaks  thy  heart  I 
Now  play'st  thou  well  thy  genuine  part ! 
Worthy,  but  for  thy  craven  fear, 
Like  me  to  roam  a  bucanier. 
What  reck'st  thou  of  the  Cause  divine, 
If  Mortham's  wealth  and  lands  be  thine  ? 
What  car'st  thou  for  beleaguer'd  York, 
If  this  good  hand  have  done  its  -work? 


444  ROKEBT.  COAJTTO  I. 

Or  what  though  Fairfax  and  his  best 
Are  reddening  Marston's  swarthy  breast, 
If  Philip  Mortham  with  them  lie, 
Lending  his  life-blood  to  the  dye  ? — 
Sit,  then !  and  as  mid  comrades  free 
Carousing  after  victory, 
When  tales  are  told  of  blood  and  fear, 
That  boys  and  women  shrink  to  hear, 
From  point  to  point  I  frankly  tell 
The  deed  of  death  as  it  befell. 

XVI. 

"  When  purpos'd  vengeance  I  forego, 

Term  me  a  wretch,  nor  deem  me  foe  ; 

And  when  an  insult  I  forgive, 

Then  brand  me  as  a  slave,  and  live  !— . 

Philip  of  Mortham  is  with  those 

Whom  Bertram  Risingham  calls  foes ; 

Or  whom  more  sure  revenge  attends, 

If  number'd  with  ungrateful  friends. 

As  was  his  wont,  ere  battle  glow'd, 

Along  the  marshall'd  ranks  he  rode, 

And  wore  his  visor  up  the  wb.ile. 

I  saw  his  melancholy  smile, 

When,  full  oppos'd  in  front,  he  knew 

Where  ROKEBV'S  kindred  banner  flew. 

'  And  thus,'  he  said,  '  will  friends  divide  !' — 

I  heard,  and  thought  how,  side  bv  side, 

We  two  had  turn'd  the  battle's  tide, 

In  many  a  well-debated  field, 

Where  Bertram's  breast  was  Philip's  shield, 

I  thought  on  Darien's  deserts  pale, 

Where  death  bestrides  the  evening  gale, 

How  o'er  my  friend  my  cloak  I  threw, 

And  fenceless  fac'd  the  deadly  dew ; 

I  thought  on  Quariana's  cliff, 

Where,  rescu'd  from  our  foundering  skiff, 

Through  the  white  breakers'  wrath  I  bore 

Exhausted  Mortham  to  the  shore ; 

And  when  his  side  an  arrow  found, 

I  suck'd  the  Indian's  venom'd  wound. 

These  thoughts  like  torrents  rush'd  along, 

To  sweep  away  my  purpose  strong. 


CANTO  L]  EOKKBY.  445 

xvir. 

"  Hearts  are  not  flint,  and  flints  are  rent ; 
Hearts  are  not  steel,  and  steel  is  bent. 
When  Mortham  bade  me,  as  of  yore, 
Be  near  him  in  the  battle's  roar, 
I  scarcely  saw  the  spears  laid  low, 
I  scarcely  heard  the  trumpets  blow; 
Lost  was  the  war  in  inward  strife, 
Debating  Mortham 's  death  or  life. 
'Twas  then,  I  thought,  how,  lur'd  to  come, 
As  partner  of  his  wealth  and  home, 
Years  of  piratic  wand* ring  o'er, 
With  him  I  sought  our  native  shore. 
But  Mortham 's  lord  grew  far  estrang'd 
From  the  bold  heart  with  whom  he  rang'd ; 
Doubts,  horrors,  superstitious  fears, 
Sadden'd  and  dimm'd  descending  years ; 
The  wily  priests  their  victim  sought, 
And  damn'd  each  free-born  deed  and  thought. 
Then  must  I  seek  another  home, 
My  license  shook  his  sober  dome ; 
If 'gold  he  gave,  in  one  wild  day 
I  revell'd  thrice  the  sum  away. 
An  idle  outcast  then  I  stray 'd, 
Unfit  for  tillage  or  for  trade. 
Deem'd,  like  the  steel  of  rusted  lance, 
Useless  and  dangerous  at  once. 
The  women  fear  d  my  hardy  look, 
At  my  approach  the  peaceful  shook  ; 
The  merchant  saw  my  glance  of  flame, 
And  lock'd  his  hoards  when  Bertram  came ; 
Each  child  of  coward  peace  kept  far 
From  the  neglected  son  of  war. 

XVIII. 

"  But  civil  discord  gave  the  call, 
And  made  my  trade  the  trade  of  alL 
By  Mortham  urg'd,  I  came  again 
His  vassals  to  the  fight  to  train. 
What  guerdon  waited  on  my  care  ? 
I  could  not  cant  of  creed  or  prayer ; 
Sour  fanatics  each  trust  obtaip'i, 
And  I,  dishonour 'd  and  disdain' d. 


446  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  I. 

Gain'd  but  the  high  and  happy  lot, 
In  these  poor  arms  to  front  the  shot ! — 
All  this  thou  know'st,  thy  gestures  tell ; 
Yet  hear  it  o'er,  and  mark  it  well. 
'Tis  honour  bids  me  now  relate 
Each  circumstance  of  Mortham's  fate. 

XIX. 

"  Thoughts,  from  the  tongue  that  slowly  part, 
Glance  quick  as  lightning  through  the  heart. 
As  my  spur  press  a  my  courser's  side, 
Philip  of  Mortham's  cause  was  tried, 
And,  ere  the  charging  squadrons  mix'd, 
His  plea  was  cast,  his  doom  was  fix'd. 
I  watch'd  him  through  the  doubtful  fray, 
That  chang'd  as  March's  moody  day, 
Till,  like  a  stream  that  bursts  its  bank, 
Fierce  Rupert  thunder'd  on  our  flank. 
'Twas  then,  midst  tumult,  smike,  and  strife, 
Where  each  man  fought  for  death  or  life, 
'Twas  then  I  fir'd  my  petronel, 
And  Mortham,  steed  and  rider,  fell. 
One  dying  look  he  upward  cast, 
Of  wrath  and  anguish —  twas  his  last. 
Think  not  that  there  I  stopp'd  to  view 
What  of  the  battle  should  ensue ; 
But  ere  I  clear'd  that  bloody  press, 
Our  northern  horse  ran  masterless ; 
Monckton  and  Mitton  told  the  news,* 
How  troops  of  roundheads  chok'd  the  Ouse, 
And  many  a  bonny  Scot,  aghast, 
Spurring  his  palfrey  northward,  past, 
Cursing  the  day  when  zeal  or  meed 
First  lur'd  their  Lesley  o'er  the  Tweed, 
Yet  when  I  reach'd  the  banks  of  Swale, 
Had  rumour  leani'd  another  tale  ; 
With  his  barb'd  horse,  fresh  tidings  say, 
Stout  Cromwell  has  redeem'd  the  day  ;")• 
But  whether  false  the  news,  or  true, 
Oswald,  I  reck  as  light  as  you." 

*  Monckton  and  Mitton  are  villages  near  the  river  Onae,  and 
not  very  distant  from  the  field  of  battle 

t  Cromwell,  with  his  regiment  ol  cuirassiers,  had  a  principal 
(hare  in  turning  the  fate  of  the  day  at  Maritou  Moor. 


CANTO  1]  EOKEBT.  447 

XX 

Not  then  by  Wycliffe  might  be  shown, 
How  his  pride  startled  at  the  tone 
In  which  his  complice,  fierce  and  free, 
Asserted  guilt's  equality. 
In  smoothest  terms  his  speech  he  wove, 
Of  endless  friendship,  faith,  and  love ; 
Promis'd  and  vow'd  in  courteous  sort, 
But  Bertram  broke  professions  short. 
"  Wycliffe,  be  sure  not  here  I  stay, 
No,  scarcely  till  the  rising  day ; 
Warn'd  by  the  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  not  an  associate's  truth. 
Do  not  my  native  dales  prolong 
Of  Percy  Rede  the  tragic  song, 
Train 'd  forward  to  his  bloody  fall, 
By  Girsonfield,  that  treach  rous  Hall?* 
Oft,  by  the  Pringle's  haunted  side, 
The  shepherd  sees  his  spectre  glide. 
And  near  the  spot  that  gave  me  name, 
The  moated  mound  of  Risin^ham,-]- 
Where  Reed  upon  her  margin  sees 
Sweet  Woodburne's  cottages  and  trees, 
Some  ancient  sculptor's  art  has  shown. 
An  outlaw's  image  on  the  stone ; 
Unmatch'd  in  strength,  a  giant  he, 
"With  quiver'd  back,  and  kirtled  knee. 
Ask  how  he  died,  that  hunter  bold, 
The  tameless  monarch  of  the  wold, 


•  According  to  the  border  legend,  Perciral  Reed,  Ewnire,  a 
keeper  of  Keedsdale,  was  betrayed  by  the  Halls  (hence  -^nomi- 
nated the  false-hearted  Ha's)  to  a  band  of  moss-trooper*  •  the 
name  of  Crosier,  who  slew  him  at  li&'inghnne,  near  the  source  of 
the  Reed.  The  ^host  of  the  murdered  borderer  was  supposed  to 
haunt  the  banks  of  a  brook  called  the  Friiule. 

T  Risingham,  upon  the  river  li.-ed,  near  the  beautiful  hamlet  of 
Woodburn,  is  an  ancient  Roman  station,  formerly  called  Habitan- 
cum.  About  hall  a  mile  distant  from  Kuiuvham,  upon  an  emi- 
nence covered  with  scattered  birch-tree-  and  fragments  of  rock, 
rut  upon  a  large  ruck,  iu  alto  relievo,  a  remarkable  figure, 
called  Rnhin  of  Hisiugham,  or  R.  bin  of  Recdsdale.  The  popular 
tradition  is,  that  it  r-presenta  a  giant,  whose  brother  resided  at 
Woodburn,  and  be  himse-fat  Ri-mzham.  It  adds,  that  they  »ub- 
lUted  by  hunting,  and  that  one  of  them,  finding  the  game  become 
too  scarce  to  support  them,  poisoned  his  companion,  to  whose  mem- 
ory the  uiouunieiit  was  engraved. 


448  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  L 

And  age  and  infancy  can  tell, 
By  brother's  treachery  he  fell. 
Thus  -warn'd  by  legends  of  my  youth, 
I  trust  to  no  associate's  truth. 

XXI. 

"  When  last  we  reason'd  of  this  deed, 
Nought,  I  bethink  me,  was  agreed, 
Or  by  what  rule,  or  when,  or  where, 
The  wealth  of  Mortham  we  should  share  ; 
Then  list,  while  1  the  portion  name, 
Our  differing  laws  give  each  to  claim. 
Thou,  vassal  sworn  to  England's  throne, 
Her  rules  of  heritage  must  own ; 
They  deal  thee,  as  to  nt-nrest  heir, 
Thy  kinsman's  lands  and  livings  fail', 
And  these  I  yield : — do  thou  revere 
The  statutes  of  the  Bucanier.* 
Friend  to  the  sea,  and  ibeman  sworn 
To  all  that  on  her  wa  ves  are  borne, 
When  falls  a  mate  in  battle  broil, 
His  comrade  heirs  hi»  portion'd  spoil ; 
When  dies  in  fight  a  daring  foe, 
He  claims  his  wealth  who  struck  the  blow; 
And  either  rule  to  me  assigns 
Those  spoils  of  Indian  seas  and  mines, 
Hoarded  in  Mortharr.'s  caverns  dark  ; 
Ingot  of  gold  and  diamond  spark, 
Chalice  and  plate  from  churches  borne, 
And  gems  from  shrieking  beauty  torn, 
Each  string  of  pearl,  each  silver  bar, 
And  all  the  wealth  of  western  war. 
I  go  to  search,  where,  dark  and  deep, 
Those  Trans-atlantic  treasures  sleep. 


*  The  "  statutes  of  the  Bucaniers"  were,  in  reality,  more  eq\>>- 
table  than  could  have'beon  expected.  When  the  expedition  was 
completed,  the  fund  of  pm>-money  acquit  ed  wa*  thrown  together, 
and  the  owners  of  the  vessel  I. ad  then  their  sliare  assigned  for  the 
expenses  of  the  outfit.  The  surgeon's  and  carpenter's  s.il:mi-s, 
with  the  price  of  provisions  and  ammunition,  weie  also  defrayed. 
Then  followed  the  compensation  due  to  the  maimrd  and  wound,  d, 
rated  according  to  the  damage  they  lud  sustained.  After  this  act 
of  justice  and  humanity,  the  remainder  of  the  booty  was  div.tlud 
into  aa  many  .-hares  as  there  were  Bucaniers. 


CANTO  t]  ROKEBY.  449 

Thou  must  along— for,  lacking  thee, 
The  heir  will  scarce  find  entrance  free  ; 
And  then  farewell.     I  haste  to  try 
t.ach  varied  pleasure  wealth  can  buy ; 
A*Vhen  cloy'd  each  wish,  these  wars  afford 
*resh  work  for  Bertram's  restless  sword." 

XXXI. 

An  undecided  answer  hung 

On  Oswald's  hesitating  tongue. 

Despite  his  craft,  he  heard  with  awe 

This  ruffian  slabber  fix  the  law ; 

While  his  own  troubled  passions  veer 

Through  hatred,  joy,  regret,  and  fear : 

Joy'd  at  the  soul  that  Bertram  flies, 

Ae  grudg'd  the  murderer's  mighty  prizn, 

Hated  his  pride's  presumptuous  tone, 

And  fear'd  to  wend  with  him  alone. 

At  length,  that  middle  course  to  steer, 

To  cowardice  and  craft  so  dear, 

_His  charge,"  he  said,  "  would  ill  allow 
His  absence  from  the  fortress  now ; 
WILFRID  on  Bertram  should  attend, 
His  son  should  journey  with  his  friend." 

XXIII. 

Contempt  kept  Bertram's  anger  down, 
And  wreath'd  to  savage  smile  his  frown. 
"  Wilfrid,  or  thou — 'tis  one  to  me, 
Whichever  bears  the  golden  key. 
Yet  think  not  but  I  mark,  and  smile 
To  mark,  thy  poor  and  selfish  wile  ! 
If  injury  from  me  you  fear, 
What,  Oswald  Wycliffe,  shields  thee  here? 
I've  sprung  from  walls  more  high  than  these, 
I've  swam  through  deeper  streams  than  Tees. 
Might  I  not  stab  thee  ere  one  yell 
Could  rouse  the  distant  sentinel? 
Start  not — it  is  not  my  design, 
But,  if  it  were,  weak  fence  were  thine ; 
And,  trust  me,  that,  in  time  of  need, 
This  hand  hath  done  more  desp'rate  deed. 
Go,  haste  and  rouse  thy  slumb'ring  son; 
Time  calls,  and  I  must  needs  be  gone.'' 


450  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  L 


Nought  of  his  sire's  ungenerous  part 
Polluted  Wilfrid's  gentle  heart ; 
A  heart  too  soft  from  early  life 
To  hold  with  fortune  needful  strife. 
His  sire,  while  yet  a  hardier  race 
Of  num'rous  sons  were  Wyclift'e's  grace, 
On  Wilfrid  set  contemptuous  l>rand, 
For  feeble  heart  and  forceless  hand ; 
But  a  fond  mother's  care  and  joy 
Were  centred  in  her  sickly  boy. 
No  touch  of  childhood's  frolic  mood 
Show'd  the  elastic  spring  of  blood ; 
Hour  after  hour  he  lov'd  to  pore 
On  Shakspeare  s  rich  and  varied  lore, 
But  turn'd  from  martial  scenes  and  light, 
From  Falstaffs  feast  aud  Percy's  fight, 
To  ponder  Jacques'  moral  strain, 
And  muse  with  Hamlet,  wise  in  vain; 
And  weep  himself  to  soft  repose 
O'er  gentle  Desdemona's  woes. 

XXV. 

In  youth  he  sought  not  pleasures  found 
By  youth  in  horse,  and  hawk,  and  hound, 
But  loved  the  quiet  joys  that  wake 
By  lonely  stream  and  silent  lake  ; 
In  Deepdale's  solitude  to  lie, 
Where  all  is  cliff  and  copse  and  sky; 
To  climb  Catcastle's  dizzy  peak, 
Or  lone  Pendragon's  mound  to  seek. 
Such  was  he  wont :  and  there  his  dream 
Soar'd  on  some  wild  fantastic  theme, 
Of  faithful  love,  or  ceaseless  spring, 
Till  Contemplation's  wearied  wing_ 
The  enthusiast  could  no  more  sustain, 
And  sad  he  sunk  to  earth  again. 

XXVI. 

He  lov'd — as  many  a  lay  can  telL 
Preserv'd  in  Stanmore's  lonely  dell. 
For  his  was  minstrel's  skill,  he  caught 
The  art  unteachable,  untaught ; 


CANTO  I.]  ROKEBY. 

He  lov'd — his  soul  did  nature  frame 
For  love,  and  fancy  nurs  d  the  flame ; 
Vainly  he  lov'd — for  seldom  swain 
Of  such  soft  mould  is  lov'd  again; 
Silent  he  lov'd — in  every  gaze 
AVas  passion,  friendship  in  his  phrase. 
So  mus'd  his  life  away — till  died 
His  brethren  all,  their  father's  pride. 
Wilfrid  is  now  the  only  heir 
Of  all  his  stratagems  and  care, 
And  destin'd,  darkling,  to  pursue 
Ambition's  maze  by  Oswald's  clue. 


Wilfrid  must  love  and  woo  the  bright 
Matilda,  heir  of  Rokeby's  knight. 
To  love  her  was  an  easy  hest, 
The  secret  empress  of  his  breast ; 
To  woo  her  was  a  harder  task 
To  one  that  durst  not  hope  or  ask. 
Yet  all  Matilda  could,  she  gave 
In  pity  to  her  gentle  slave  ; 
Friendship,  esteem,  and  fair  regard, 
And  praise,  the  poet's  best  reward ! 
She  read  the  tales  his  taste  approv'd, 
And  sung  the  lays  he  fram'd  or  lov'd ; 
Yet,  loath  to  nurse  the  fatal  flame 
Of  hopeless  love  in  friendship's  name, 
In  kind  raprice  she  oft  withdrew 
The  fa v' ring  glance  to  friendship  due, 
Then  griev'd  to  see  her  victim's  pain, 
And  gave  the  dang'rous  smiles  again. 


So  did  the  suit  of  Wilfrid  stand, 
When  war's  loud  summons  wak'd  the  land. 
Three  banners,  floating  o'er  the  Tees, 
The  wo-foreboding  peasant  sees  ; 
In  concert  oft  they  brav'd  of  old 
The  bordering  Scot's  incursion  bold : 
Frowning  defiance  in  their  pride, 
Their  vassals  now  and  lords  divide. 


452  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  L 

From  his  fair  hall  on  Greta  banks, 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby  led  his  ranks, 
To  aid  the  valiant  northern  Earls, 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  royal  Charles. 
Mortham,  by  marriage  near  allied, — • 
His  sister  had  been  Rokeby's  bride, 
Though  long  before  the  civil  fray, 
In  peaceful  grave  the  lady  lay. — 
Philip  of  Mortham  rais'd  his  band, 
And  march'd  at  Fairfax's  command ; 
While  Wycliffe,  bound  by  many  a  train. 
Of  kindred  art  with  wily  Vane, 
Less  prompt  to  brave  the  bloody  field, 
Made  Barnard's  battlements  his  shield, 
Secur'd  them  with  the  Lunedale  powers, 
And  for  the  Commons  held  the  towers. 


The  lovely  heir  of  Rokeby's  Knight 
Waits  in  his  halls  the  event  of  fight ; 
For  England's  war  rever'd  the  claim 
Of  every  unprotected  name, 
And  spar'd,  amid  its  fiercest  rage, 
Childhood  and  womanhood  and  age. 
But  Wilfrid,  son  to  Rokeby's  foe, 
Must  the  dear  privilege  forego, 
By  Greta's  side,  in  evening  grey, 
To  steal  upon  Matilda's  way, 
Striving,  with  fond  hypocrisy, 
For  careless  step  and  vacant  eye ; 
Calming  each  anxious  look  and  glance, 
To  give  the  meeting  all  to  chance, 
Or  framing  as  a  fair  excuse, 
The  book,  the  pencil,  or  the  muse  ; 
Something  to  give,  to  sing,  to  say, 
Some  modern  tale,  some  ancient  lay. 
Then,  while  the  long'd-for  minutes  last, 
Ah !  minutes  quickly  over-past ! — 
Recording  each  expression  free, 
Of  kind  or  careless  courtesy, 
Each  friendly  look,  each  softer  tone, 
As  food  for  fancy  when  alone. 


CANTO  I.]  ROKEBT. 

All  this  is  o'er— but  still,  unseen, 
"Wilfrid  may  lurk  in  Eastwood  green, 
To  watch  Matilda's  wonted  round, 
While  springs  his  heart  at  every  sound. 
She  comes  ! — 'tis  but  a  passing  sight, 
Yet  serves  to  cheat  his  weary  night ; 
She  comes  not^-He  will  wait  the  hour, 
When  her  lamp  lightens  in  the  tow'r; 
Tis  something  yet,  if,  as  she  past, 
Her  shade  is  o'er  the  lattice  cast. 
"  What  is  my  life,  my  hope?"  he  said; 
"  Alas  !  a  transitory  shade." 

XXX. 

Thus  wore  bis  life,  though  reason  strov* 
For  mastery  in  vain  with  love, 
Forcing  upon  his  thoughts  the  sum 
Of  present  woe  and  ills  to  come, 
While  still  he  turn'd  impatient  ear 
From  Truth's  intrusive  voice  severe. 
Gentle,  indiffrent,  and  subdued,^ 
In  all  but  this,  unmov'd  he  view'd 
Each  outward  change  of  ill  and  good  : 
But  Wilfrid,  docile,  soft,  and  mild, 
Was  Fancy's  spoil'd  and  wayward  child ; 
In  her  bright  car  she  bu.le  him  ride, 
With  one  fair  form  to  grace  his  side, 
Or,  in  some  wild  and  lone  retreat, 
Flung  her  high  spells  around  his  seat, 
Bath'd  in  her  dews  his  languid  head, 
Her  fairy  mantle  o'er  him  spread, 
For  him  her  opiates  gave  to  flow, 
Which  he  who  tastes,  can  ne'er  forego, 
And  plac'  d  him  in  her  circle,  free 
From  every  stern  reality. 
Till,  to  the  Visionary,  seem 
Her  day-dreams  truth,  and  truth  a  dream. 

XXXI. 

Woe  to  the  youth,  whom  Fancy  gains, 
Winning  from  Reason's  hand  the  reina, 
Pity  and  woe !  for  such  a  mind 
Is  soft  contemplative,  and  kind ; 


454  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  I 

And  woe  to  those  who  train  such  youtli, 
And  spare  to  press  the  rights  of  truth, 
The  mind  to  strengthen  and  anneal, 
While  on  the  stithy  glows  the  steel ! 
O  teach  him,  -while  your  lessons  last 
To  judge  the  present  hy  the  past ; 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  pursued, 
How  rich  it  glow  d  with  promis'd  good  t 
Remind  him  of  each  wish  enjoy'd, 
How  soon  his  hopes  possession  cloy'd ! 
Tell  him,  we  play  unequal  game, 
Whene'er  we  shoot  by  Fancy's  aim  ! 
And,  ere  he  strip  him  for  her  race,- 
Show  the  conditions  of  the  chase. 
Two  sisters  by  the  goal  are  set, 
Cold  Disappointment  and  Regret ; 
One  disenchants  the  winner's  eyes, 
And  strips  of  all  its  worth  the  prize. 
While  one  augments  its  gaudy  show 
More  to  enhance  the  loser's  woe. 
The  victor  sees  his  fairy  gold, 
Transform'd,  when  won,  to  drossy  mould, 
But  still  the  vanquish' d  mourns  his  loss, 
And  rues,  as  gold,  that  glittering  dross. 


More  wouldst  thou  know — yon  tower  survey 
Yon  couch  unpress'd  since  parting  day, 
Yon  untrimm'd  lamp,  whose  yellow  gleam, 
Is  mingling  with  the  cold  moonbeam, 
And  yon  thin  form  ! — the  hectic  red 
On  his  pale  cheek  unequal  spread; 
The  head  reclin'd,  the  loosen' d  hair, 
The  limbs  relax'd,  the  mournful  air.— 
See,  he  looks  up ; — a  woful  smile 
Lightens  his  wo-worn  cheek  a  while, — • 
'Tis  fancy  wakes  some  idle  thought, 
To  gild  the  ruin  she  has  wrought ; 
For,  like  the  bat  of  Indian  brakes, 
Her  pinions  fan  the  wound  she  makes, 
And  soothing  thus  the  dreamer's  pain, 
She  drinks  his  life-blood  from  the  vein. 


CANTO  I]  SOKEBY.  455 

Now  to  the  lattice  turn  his  eyes, 
Vain  hope  !  to  see  the  sun  arise. 
The  moon  with  clouds  is  still  o'ercast , 
Still  howls  by  fits  the  stormy  blast ; 
Another  hour  must  wear  away, 
Ere  the  East  kindle  into  day ; 
And  hark  !  to  waste  that  weary  hour, 
He  tries  the  minstrel's  magic  power. 


SONG. 
To  THE  MOOK. 

Hail  to  thy  cold  and  clouded  beam, 

Pale  pilgrim  of  the  t;  •  ubled  sky ! 
Hail,  though  the  mists  that  o  er  thee  stream 

Lend  to  thy  brow  their  sullen  dye ! 
How  should  thy  pure  and  peaceful  eye 

Untroubled  view  our  scenes  below, 
Or  how  a  tearless  beam  supply 

To  light  a  world  of  war  and  wo  ! 

Fair  Queen !  I  will  not  blame  thee  now, 

As  once  by  Greta's  fairy  side  ; 
Each  little  cloud  that  dimm'd  thy  brow 

Did  then  an  angel's  beauty  hide. 
And  of  the  shades  I  then  could  chide, 

Still  are  the  thoughts  to  mem'ry  dear, 
For,  while  a  softer  strain  I  tried, 

They  hid  my  blush,  and  calm'd  my  fear. 

Then  did  I  swear  thy  ray  serene 

Was  form'd  to  light  some  lonely  dell, 
By  two  fond  lovers  only  seen, 

Reflected  from  the  crystal  well, 
Or  sleeping  on  their  mossy  cell, 

Or  quivering  on  the  lattice  bright, 
Or  glancing  on  their  couch,  to  teD 

How  swiftly  wanes  the  summer  night ! 

XXXIV. 

He  starts — a  step  at  this  lone  hour ! 
A  voice ! — his  father  seeks  the  tow'r, 


456  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  H. 

With  haggard  look  and  troubled  sense, 

Fresh  from  his  dreadful  conference. 

"  Wilfrid  ! — what,  not  to  sleep  address'd  ? 

Thou  hast  no  cares  to  chase  thy  rest. 

Mortham  has  fall'n  on  Marston-moor ; 

Bertram  brings  warrant  to  secure 

His  treasures,  bought  by  spoil  and  blood, 

For  the  state's  use  and  public  good. 

The  menials  will  thy  voice  obey; 

Let  his  commission  have  its  way, 

In  every  point,  in  every  word." — 

Then,  in  a  whisper, — "  Take  thy  sword ! 

Bertram  is— what  I  must  not  tell. 

I  hear  his  hasty  step— farewell !" 


CANTO  SECOND. 


FAB  in  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
The  gale  had  sigh'd  itself  to  rest; 
The  moon  was  cloudless  now  and  clear, 
But  pale,  and  soon  to  disappear. 
The  thin  grey  clouds  wax  dimly  light 
On  Brusleton  and  Houghton  height; 
And  the  rich  dale,  that  eastward  lay, 
Waited  the  wakening  touch  of  day. 
To  give  its  woods  and  cultur'd  plain, 
And  tow'rs  and  spires,  to  light  again. 
But,  westward,  Stanmore's  shapeless  swell, 
And  Lunedale  wild,  and  Kelton-fell, 
And  rock-begirdled  Gilmanscar, 
And  Arkingarth,  lay  dark  afar ; 
While,  as  a  livelier  twilight  falls, 
Emerge  proud  Barnard  s  banner'd  walls 
High  crown'd  he  sits,  in  da\vning  pale, 
The  sovereign  of  the  lovely  vale. 

II. 

What  prospects,  from  his  watch-tower  high, 
Gleam  gradual  on  the  warder's  eye  ! 


CAJTTO  no  ROKEBY.  467 

Far  sweeping  to  the  east,  he  sees 
Down  his  deep  woods  the  course  of  Teei, 
And  tracks  his  wand' rings  by  the  steam 
Of  summer  vapours  from  the  stream  ; 
And  ere  he  pace  his  destin'd  hour 
By  Brackenbury's  dungeon-tower, 
These  silver  mists  shall  melt  away, 
And  dew  the  woods  with  glitt'ring  spray. 
Then  in  broad  lustre  shall  be  shown 
That  mighty  trench  of  living  stone, 
And  each  huge  trunk  that,  from  the  side, 
Reclines  him  o'er  the  darksome  tide, 
Where  Tees,  full  many  a  fathom  low, 
Wears  with  his  rage  no  common  foe ; 
For  pebbly  bank,  nor  sand-bed  here, 
Nor  clay-mound,  checks  his  fierce  career. 
Condemn'd  to  mine  a  channell'd  war, 
O'er  solid  sheets  of  marble  grey. 


Nor  Tees  alone,  in  dawning  bright, 

Shall  rush  upon  the  ravish'd  sight ; 

But  many  a  tributary  stream 

Each  from  its  own  dark  dell  shall  gleam  * 

Staindrop,  who,  from  her  silvan  bowers 

Salutes  proud  Raby's  battled  towers ; 

The  rural  brook  of  Egliston, 

And  Balder,  nam'd  from  Odin's  son ; 

And  Greta,  to  whose  banks  ere  long 

We  lead  the  lovers  of  the  song ; 

And  silver  Lune,  from  Stanmore  wild, 

And  fairy  Thorsgill's  murm'ring  child. 

And  last  and  least,  but  loveliest  still, 

Romantic  Deepdale's  slender  rill. 

Who  in  that  dim-wood  glen  hath  stray'd, 

Yet  long'd  for  Rosliu's  magic  glade  ? 

Who  wand'ring  there,  hath  sought  to  c. 

Ev'n  for  that  vale  so  stern  and  strange, 

Where  Cartland's  Crags,  fantastic  rent, 

Through  her  green  copse  like  spires  are  sent  ? 

Yet,  Albin,  yet  the  praise  be  thine, 

Thy  scenes  and  story  to  combine  ! 

O 


458  EOKEBY. 

Thou  bidd'st  him,  -who  by  Roslin  strays, 

List  to  the  deeds  of  other  days  ; 

'Mid  Cartland's  Crags  thou  show'st  the  cave, 

The  refuge  of  thy  champion  brave  ;* 

Giving  each  rock  its  storied  tale, 

Pouring  a  lay  for  every  dale, 

Knitting,  as  with  a  moral  band, 

Thy  native  legends  with  thy  land, 

To  lend  each  scene  the  int'rest  high 

Which  genius  beams  from  Beauty's  eye. 

IV. 

Bertram  awaited  not  the  sight 

Which  sun-rise  shows  from  Barnard's  height 

But  from  the  tow'rs,  preventing  day, 

With  Wilfrid  took  his  early  way, 

While  misty  dawn,  and  moonbeam  pale, 

Still  mingled  in  the  silent  dale. 

By  Barnard's  bridge  of  stately  stone. 

The  southern  bank  of  Tees  they  won ; 

Their  winding  path  then  eastward  cast, 

And  Egliston's  grey  ruins  pass'd ; 

Each  on  his  own  deep  visions  bent, 

Silent  and  sad  they  onward  went. 

Well  may  you  think  that  Bertram's  mood, 

To  Wilfrid  savage  seem'd  and  rude ; 

Well  may  you  think  bold  Risingham 

Held  Wilfrid  trivial,  poor,  and  tame  ; 

And  small  the  intercourse,  I  ween, 

Such  uncongenial  souls  between. 

v. 

Stern  Bertram  shunn'd  the  nearer  way, 
Through  Rokebv's  park  and  chase  that  lay, 
And,  skirting  high  the  valley's  ridge, 
They  cross'd  by  Greta's  ancient  bridge. 
Descending  where  her  waters  wind 
Free  for  a  space  and  unconfin'd. 
As,  'scap'd  from  BrignaH's  dark-wood  glen, 
She  seeks  wild  Mortham's  deeper  den. 

*  Cartland  Crags,  near  I,anark,  celebrated  as  among  the  favour- 
ite retreats  of  Sir  William  Wallace. 


CANTO  II.]  BOKEBY.  459 

There,  as  his  eye  glanc'd  o'er  the  mound, 
Raia'd  by  that  Legion  long  renown' d, 
Whose  votive  shrine  asserts  their  claim, 
Of  pious,  faithful,  conquering  fame, 
"  Stern  sons  of  war !"  sad  \V  ilfrid  sigh'd, 
"  Behold  the  boast  of  Roman  pride  ! 
What  now  of  all  your  luiis  are  known  ? 
A  grassy  trench,  a  broken  stone  !" — 
This  to  himself ;  for  moral  strain 
To  Bertram  were  address'd  in  vain. 

VI. 

Of  different  mood,  a  deeper  sigh 
Awoke,  when  Rokeby's  turrets  high* 
Were  northward  i  >  the  dawning  seen 
To  rear  them  o'er  ,;..e  thicket  green. 
O  then,  though  Spenser's  self  had  stray'd 
Beside  him  thrcugh  the  lovely  glade, 
Lending  his  rich  luxuriant  glow 
Of  Fancy,  all  its  charms  to  show 
Pointing  the  stream  rejoicing  free, 
As  captive  set  at  liberty, 
Flashing  her  sparkling  waves  abroad, 
And  clam'ring  joyful  on  her  road ; 
Pointing  where,  up  the  sunny  banks, 
The  trees  retire  in  scatter'd  ranks, 
Save  where,  advanc'd  before  the  rest, 
On  knoll  or  hillock  rears  his  crest, 
Lonely  and  huge,  the  giant  Oak, 
As  champions,  when  their  band  is  broke. 
Stand  forth  to  guard  the  rearward  post. 
The  bulwark  of  the  scatter'd  host — 
All  this,  and  more,  might  Spenser  say, 
Yet  waste  in  vain  his  magic  lay, 
While  Wilfrid  eyed  the  distant  tower, 
Whose  lattice  lights  Matilda's  bower. 

VII. 

The  open  vale  is  soon  pass'd  o'er, 
Rokeby,  though  nigh,  is  seen  no  more  ; 

»  This  ancient  manor  long  gave  name  to  a  family  by  whom  it  U 
•aid  to  have  been  possessed  trom  the  Conquest  downward,  and  who 
aieuat,''\ffel'e"!  Ume9  d'»'»>S!»ished  in  history.  U  was  the  Baron 
of  H,,kehy  who  nnally  ,U-lWued  ih...  insurrection  of  the  Karl  of 
I*orihumberluii;i  duriug  the  reiyu  of  Heury  IV. 


460  nOKEBT.  [CANTO  U. 

Sinking  mid  Greta's  thickets  deep, 

A  wild  and  darker  course  they  keep, 

A  stern  and  lone,  yet  lovely  road, 

As  e'er  the  foot  of  Minstrel  trode  ! 

Broad  shadows  o'er  their  passage  fell, 

Deeper  and  narrower  grew  the  dell ; 

It  seem'd  some  mountain  rent  and  riven, 

A  channel  for  the  stream  had  given, 

So  high  the  cliffs  of  limestone  grey 

Hung  beetling  o'er  the  torrent's  way, 

Yielding,  along  their  rugged  base, 

A  flinty  footpath's  niggard  space, 

Where  he,  who  winds  'twixt  rock  and  wave, 

May  hear  the  headlong  torrent  rave, 

And  like  a  steed  in  frantic  fit, 

That  flings  the  froth  from  curb  and  bit, 

May  view  her  chafe  her  waves  to  spray, 

O'er  every  rock  that  bars  her  way, 

Till  foam-globes  on  her  eddies  ride, 

Thick  as  the  schemes  of  human  pride 

That  down  life's  current  drive  amain, 

As  frail,  as  frothy,  and  as  vain  1 


The  cliffs  that  rear  their  haughty  head 
High  o'er  the  river's  darksome  bed, 
Were  now  all  naked,  wild,  and  grey 
Now  waving  all  with  greenwood  spray ; 
Here  trees  to  ev'ry  crevice  clung, 
And  o'er  the  dell  their  branches  hung  ; 
And  there,  all  splinter'd  and  uneven, 
The  shiver 'd  rocks  ascend  to  heaven ; 
Oft,  too,  the  ivy  swath' d  their  breast, 
And  wreath'd  its  garland  round  their  crest, 
Or  from  the  spires  bade  loosely  flare 
Its  tendrils  in  the  middle  air, 
As  pennons  wont  to  wave  of  old 
O'er  the  high  feast  of  Baron  bold, 
When  revell'd  loud  the  feudal  rout, 
And  the  arch'd  halls  return'd  their  shout ; 
Such  and  more  wild  is  Greta's  roar, 
And  such  the  echoes  from  her  shore. 


CANTO  IL]  EOKEBT. 

And  so  the  ivied  banners'  gleam 
Waved  wildly  o'er  the  brawling  stream. 

IX. 

Now  from  the  stream  the  rocks  recede, 

But  leave  between  no  sunny  mead, 

No,  nor  the  spot  of  pebbly  sand, 

Oft  found  by  such  a  mountain  strand  •, 

Forming  such  warm  and  dry  retreat, 

As  fancy  deems  the  lonely  seat, 

Where  hermit,  wand' ring  from  his  cell, . 

His  rosary  might  love  to  tell. 

But  here,  'twixt  rock  and  river,  grew 

A  dismal  grove  of  sable  yew, 

With  whose  sad  tints  were  mingled  seeu 

The  blighted  fir's  sepulchral  green. 

Seem'd  that  the  trees  their  shadows  casi 

The  earth  that  nourished  them  to  blast ; 

For  never  knew  that  swarthy  grove 

The  verdant  hue  that  fairies  love  ; 

Nor  wilding  green,  nor  woodland  flower. 

Arose  within  its  baleful  bower ; 

The  dank  and  sable  earth  receives 

Its  only  carpet  from  the  leaves, 

That  from  the  with'ring  branches  cast, 

Bestrew' d  the  ground  with  every  blast, 

Though  now  the  sun  was  o'er  the  hill, 

In  this  dark  spot  'twas  twilight  still, 

Save  that  ou  Greta's  farther  side 

Some  straggling  beams  through  copsewood  glide; 

And  wild  and  savage  contrast  made 

That  dingle's  deep  and  fun'ral  shade, 

With  the  bright  tints  of  early  day, 

Which,  glimm'ring  through  the  ivy  spray, 

On  the  opposing  summit  lay. 

X. 

The  lated  peasant  shunn'd  the  dell ; 
For  Superstition  wont  to  tell 
Of  many  a  grisly  sound  and  sifjlit, 
Scaring  its  path  at  dead  of  night. 
When  Christmas  logs  blaze  high  and  wide, 
Such  wonders  speed  the  festftl  tide  ; 


461 


462  ROKEDT.  [CANTO  H. 

Wliile  Curiosity  and  Fear, 

Pleasure  and  Pain,  sit  crouching  near, 

Till  childhood's  cheek  no  longer  glows, 

And  village  maidens  lose  the  rose. 

The  thrilling  int'rest  rises  higher, 

The  circle  closes  nigh  and  nigher, 

And  shudd'ring  glance  is  cast  behind, 

As  louder  moans  the  wintry  wind. 

Believe,  that  fitting  scene  was  laid 

For  such  wild  tales  in  Mortham  glade ; 

For  who  had  seen,  on  Greta's  side, 

By  that  dim  light  fierce  Bertram  stride, 

In  such  a  spot,  at  such  an  hour, — 

If  toueh'd  by  Superstition's  power, 

Might  well  have  deem'd  that  Hell  had  given 

A  murderer's  ghost  to  upper  heaven, 

While  Wilfrid's  form  had  seem'd  to  glide 

Like  his  pale  victim  by  his  side. 

XI. 

Nor  think  to  village  swains  alone 
Are  these  unearthly  terrors  known ; 
For  not  to  rank  nor  sex  coufin'd 
Is  this  vain  ague  of  the  mind  : 
Hearts  firm  as  steel,  as  marble  hard, 
'Gainst  faith,  and  love,  and  pity  barr'd, 
Have  quak'd,  like  aspen  leaves  in  May, 
Beneath  its  universal  sway. 
Bertram  had  listed  many  a  tale 
Of  wonder  in  his  native  dale, 
That  in  his  secret  soul  retain 'd 
The  credence  they  in  childhood  gain'd : 
Nor  less  his  wild  advent'rous  youth 
Believ'd  in  every  legend's  truth  ; 
Learn'd  when,  beneath  the  tropic  gale, 
Full  swell'd  the  vessel's  steady  sail, 
And  the  broad  Indian  moon  her  light 
Pour'd  on  the  watch  of  middle  night, 
When  seamen  love  to  hear  and  tell 
Of  portent,  prodigy,  and  spell : 
What  gales  are  sold  on  Lapland's  shore,* 
How  whistle  rash  bids  ter:- pests  roar, 

*  Jhe  Lapland  witches  were  famous  for  the  sale  of  prosperous 
winds  which  they  disposed  of  to  credulous  mariners, 


CAXTO  II  ]  ROKEBY.  463 

)f  witch,  of  mermaid,  and  of  sprite, 
Of  Erick's  cap  and  Elmo's  light  ;* 
Or  of  that  Phantom  Ship,  whose  fonn 
Shoots  like  a  meteor  through  the  storm  ; 
When  the  dark  scud  comes  driving  hard, 
And  lower'd  is  every  top-sail  yard, 
And  canvass  wove  in  earthly  looms, 
No  more  to  brave  the  storm  presumes  ! 
Then,  'mid  the  war  of  sea  and  sky, 
Top  and  top-gallant  hoisted  high, 
Full  spread  and  crowded  every  sail, 
The  Demon  Frigate+  braves  the  gale ; 
And  well  the  doom'd  spectators  know 
The  harbinger  of  wreck  and  woe. 

XII. 

Then,  too,  were  told,  in  stifled  tone, 
Marvels  and  omens  all  their  own ; 
How,  by  some  desert  isle  or  key,J 
Where  Spaniards  wrought  their  cruelty, 
Or  where  the  savage  pirate's  mood 
Repaid  it  home  in  deeds  of  blood, 
Strange  nightly  sounds  of  woe  and  fear 
AppalTd  the  list'ning  Bucanier, 
Whose  light-arm'd  shallop  aachor'd  lay 
In  ambush  by  the  lonely  bay. 
The  groan  of  grief,  the  shriek  of  pain, 
Ring  from  the  moonlight  groves  of  cane ; 

*  That  these  are  general  superstition*,  is  well  known  to  all  who 
have  been  on  ship-board,  or  who  have  conversed  with  seamen. 
They  farther  assert,  that  Ericus,  King  of  Sweden,  was  so  familiar 
with  the  evil  spirits,  that  which  way  soever  he  turned  his  can.  the 
wiud  would  presently  blow  that  way. 

t  This  is  an  allusion  to  a  well-known  nautical  superstition  con- 
•erning  a  fantastic  vessel,  called  by  sailors  the  Flying  Dutchman 
and  supposed  to  be  seen  about  the  latitude  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 
She  is  distinguished  from  earthly  vessels  by  bearing  a  press  of  sail 
when  ail  others  are  unable,  from  stre<s  of  weather,  to  show  HII 
iiich_  of  canvass.  The  apparition  of  the  ship  is  considered  by  the 
mariners  as  the  worst  of  all  possible  omens. 

t  These  keys  are  small  sandy  patches,  appearing  just  above  the 
surface  of  ihe  ocean  Ai  many  of  »he  atrocities  which  the  bucau- 
iers  practised  on  their  prisoneri  were  committed  in  such  spots, 
there  are  some  of  these  keys  which  even  now  have  an  indifferent 
reputation  among  seamen,  and  where  they  are  with  difficulty  pre- 
vailed on  to  remain  ashore  at  nigl.t  on  iccomit  of  the  visionary 
terrors  incident  to  placet  which  have  b»._u  thai  contaminated. 


464  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  II. 

The  fierce  advent'rer's  heart  they  scare, 
Who  wearies  mem'ry  for  a  prayer, 
Curses  the  road-stead,  and  with  gale 
Of  early  morning  lifts  the  sail, 
To  give,  in  thirst  of  blood  and  prey 
A  legend  for  another  bay. 

XIII. 

Thus,  as  a  man,  a  youth,  a  child 

Train'd  in  the  mystic  and  the  wild, 

With  this  on  Bertram's  soul  at  times 

Rush'd  a  dark  feeling  of  his  crimes  ; 

Such  to  his  troubled  soul  their  form, 

As  the  pale  Death-ship  to  the  storm, 

And  such  their  omen  dim  and  dread, 

As  shrieks  and  voiees  of  the  dead, — • 

That  pang,  whose  transitory  force 

Hover' d  Twixt  horror  and  remorse ; 

That  pang,  perchance,  his  bosom  press'd, 

As  Wilfrid  sudden  he  addressed  : — 

"  Wilfrid,  this  glen  is  never  trod 

Until  the  sun  rides  high  abroad ; 

Yet  twice  have  I  beheld  to-day 

A  Form,  that  seem'd  to  dog  our  way ; 

Twice  from  my  glance  it  seem'd  to  flea 

And  shroud  itself  by  cliff  or  tree. 

How  think'st  thou? — Is  our  path  way-laid? 

Or  hath  thy  sire  my  trust  betray 'd  ? 

If  so" Ere,  starting  from  his  dream, 

That  turn'd  upon  a  gentler  theme, 
Wilfrid  had  rous'd  him  to  reply, 
Bertram  sprung  forward,  shouting  high, 
"  Whatever  thou  art,  thou  now  shalt  stand  !** — • 
And  forth  he  darted,  sword  in  hand. 
XIV. 

As  bursts  the  levin  in  its  wrath, 
He  shot  him  down  the  sounding  path  ; 
Rock,  wood,  and  stream,  rang  wildly  out. 
To  his  loud  step  and  savage  shout. 
Seems  that  the  object  of  his  race 
Hath  scal'd  the  cliffs  ;  his  frantic  chase 
Sidelong  he  turns,  and  now  'tis  bent 
Right  up  the  rock's  tall  battlement ; 


CANTO  II.]  BOKEBT.  465 

Straining  each  sinew  to  ascend, 

Foot,  hand,  and  knee,  their  aid  must  lend. 

Wilfrid,  all  dizzy  with  dismay, 

Views,  from  beneath,  his  dreadful  way : 

Now  to  the  oak's  warp'd  roots  he  clings, 

Now  trusts  his  weight  to  ivy  strings  ; 

Now,  like  the  wild  goat,  must  he  daie 

An  unsupported  leap  in  air ; 

Hid  in  the  shrubby  rain-course  now, 

You  mark  him  by  the  crashing  bough, 

And  by  his  corslet's  sullen  clank, 

And  by  the  stones  spuni'd  from  the  bank, 

And  by  the  hawk  scar'd  from  her  nest, 

And  ravens*  croaking  o'er  their  guest, 

Who  deem  his  forfeit  limbs  shall  pay 

The  tribute  of  his  bold  essay. 

xv. 

See,  he  emerges  ! — desp'rate  now 
All  farther  course — Yon  beetling  brow, 
In  craggy  nakedness  sublime, 
What  heart  or  foot  shall  dare  to  climb  ? 
It  bears  no  tendril  for  his  clasp, 
Presents  no  angle  to  his  grasp  : 
Sole  stay  his  foot  may  rest  upon, 
Is  yon  earth-bedded  jetting  stone. 
Balanc'd  on  such  precarious  prop, 
He  strains  his  grasp  to  reach  the  top. 
Just  as  the  dang'rous  stretch  he  makes, 
By  heav'n,  his  faithless  footstool  shakes! 
Beneath  his  tott'ring  bulk  it  bends, 
It  sways, — it  loosens, — it  descends  ! 
And  downward  holds  its  headlong  way, 
Crashing  o'er  rock  and  copsewood  spray. 
Loud  thunders  shake  the  echoing  dell ! — 
Fell  it  alone  ? — alone  it  fell. 
Just  on  the  very  verge  of  fate, 
The  hardy  Bertram's  falling  weight 
He  trusted  to  his  sinewy  hands, 
And  on  the  top  unharm'd  he  stands  ! 

xvi. 

Wilfrid  a  safer  path  pursued  ; 
At  intervals  where,  rouehlv  hew'd, 
"V2 


466  ROKE3Y.  [CANTO  H. 

Bude  steps  ascending  from  the  dell 
Render'd  the  cliffs  accessible. 
By  circuit  slow  he  thus  attained 
The  height  that  Risinghara  had  gain'd. 
And  when  he  issued  from  the  wood, 
Before  the  gate  of  Mortham  stood.* 
'Twas  a  fair  scene !  the  sunbeam  lay 
On  battled  tow'r  and  portal  grey  : 
And  from  the  grassy  slope  he  sees 
The  Greta  flow  to  meet  the  Tees ; 
Where,  issuing  from  her  darksome  bed, 
She  caught  the  morning's  eastern  red, 
And  through  the  soft'ning  vale  below 
Roll'd  her  Dright  waves,  in  rosy  glow, 
All  blushing,  to  her  bridal  bed, 
Like  some  shy  maid  in  convent  bred  ; 
While  linnet,  lark,  and  blackbird  gay, 
Sing  forth  her  nuptial  roundelay. 


'Twas  sweetly  sung  that  roundelay ; 
That  summer  morn  shone  blithe  and  gay; 
But  morning  beam,  and  wild-bird's  call, 
Awak'd  not  Mortham's  silent  hall. 
No  porter,  by  the  low-brow'd  gate, 
Took  in  the  wonted  niche  his  seat ; 
To  the  pav'd  court  no  peasant  drew; 
Wak'd  to  their  toil  no  menial  crew ; 
The  maiden's  carol  was  not  heard, 
As  to  her  morning  task  she  far'd  : 
In  the  void  offices  around, 
Rung  not  a  hoof,  nor  bay'd  a  hound ; 
Nor  eager  steed,  with  shrilling  neigh, 
Accus'd  the  lagging  groom's  delay; 
Untrimm'd,  undress'd,  neglected  now, 
Was  alley'd  walk  and  orchard  bough ; 
All  spoke  the  master's  absent  care, 
All  spoke  neglect  and  disrepair. 

»  The  situation  of  Mortham  is  eminently  beautiful,  occupying  a 
high  I  auk,  at  the  bottom  of  which  the  Greta  winds  out  of  tha 
dark,  narrow,  and  romantic  dell,  which  the  text  has  attempted 
to  describe,  and  flows  onward  through  amore  opeuvalUy  to  meet 
the  Tees  about  a  quarter  of  »  mile  from  the  castle. 


CANTO  a]  BOKEBY.  467 

South  of  the  gate,  an  arrow  flight, 
Two  mighty  elms  their  limbs  unite, 
As  if  a  canopy,  to  spread 
O'er  the  lone  dwelling  of  the  dead ; 
For  their  huge  boughs  in  arches  bent 
Above  a  massive  monument, 
Carv'd  o'er  in  ancient  Gothic  wise, 
With  many  a  scutcheon  and  device: 
There,  spent  with  toil  and  sunk  in  gloom, 
Bertram  stood  pond'ring  by  the  tomb. 

XT1II. 

"  It  vanish'd  like  a  flitting  ghost ! 
Behind  this  tomb,"  he  said,  "  'twas  lost — • 
This  tomb,  where  oft  I  deem'd  lies  stor'd 
Of  Mortham's  Indian  wealth  the  hoard. 
'Tis  true,  the     .jed  servants  said 
Here  his  lamented  wife  is  laid ; 
But  weightier  reasons  may  be  guess'd 
For  their  lord's  strict  and  stern  behest, 
That  none  should  on  his  steps  intrude, 
Whene'er  he  sought  this  solitude. — 
An  ancient  mariner  I  knew, 
What  time  I  sail'd  with  Morgan's  crew, 
Who  oft,  'mid  our  carousals,  spake 
Of  Raleigh,  Forbisher,  and  Drake ; 
Advent' rous  hearts  !  who  barter' d,  bold, 
Their  English  steel  for  Spanish  gold. 
Trust  not,  would  his  experience  say, 
Captain  or  comrade  with  your  prey ; 
But  seek  some  charnel,  when,  at  full, 
The  moon  gilds  skeleton  and  skull ; 
There  dig,  and  tomb  your  precious  heap, 
And  bid  the  dead  your  treasure  keep  ;* 
Sure  stewards  they,  if  fitting  spell 
Their  service  to  the  task  compel. 
Lacks  there  such  charnel  ? — kill  a  slave, 
Or  prisoner,  on  the  treasure  grave; 

*  If  time  dill  not  permit  the  Buoaniers  to  lavish  awry  their  plun- 
der in  their  usual  debaucheries,  th  y  were  wont  to  hide  it,  in  the 
desert  islands  and  k  -ys  which  they  frequented.  They  are  said  to 
have  had  recourse  to  a  horrid  ritval,  in  order  to  secure  an  un- 
earthly guardian  to  their  treasures.  They  killed  a  Negro  or 
Spaniard,  and  buried  him  with  the  treasure,  believing  that  liis 
fl'irit  would  haunt  the  spot,  and  terrify  away  all  intruders. 


468  B.OKEBT.  "CAJfTO  II. 

And  bid  his  discontented  ghost 
Stalk  nightly  on  his  lonely  post. — 
Such  was  his  tale.     Its  truth,  I  ween 
Is  in  my  morning  vision  seen." — 


Wilfrid,  who  scorn'd  the  legend  wild, 

In  mingled  mirth  and  pity  smil'd, 

Much  marv'lling  that  a  breast  so  bold 

In  such  fond  tale  belief  should  hold ; 

But  yet  of  Bertram  sought  to  know 

The  apparition's  form  and  show. — 

The  pow'r  within  the  guilty  breast, 

Oft  vanquish'd,  never  quite  suppress'd, 

That  unsubdued  and  lurking  lies 

To  take  the  felon  by  surprise, 

And  force  him,  as  by  magic  spell, 

In  his  despite  his  guilt  to  tell, — 

That  pow'r  in  Bertram's  breast  awoke  ; 

Scarce  conscious  he  was  heard,  he  spoke ; 

"  'Twas  Mortham's  form,  from  foot  to  head ! 

His  morion,  with  the  plume  of  red, 

His  shape,  his  mien —  twas  Mortham,  right 

As  when  I  slew  him  in  the  fight."— 

"Thou  slay  him? — thou?" — With  conscious  start 

He  heard,  then  mann'd  his  haughty  heart — - 

"  I  slew  him  ? — I ! — I  had  forgot 

Thou,  stripling,  knew'st  not  of  the  plot. 

But  it  is  spoken — nor  will  I 

Deed  done,  or  spoken  word,  deny. 

I  slew  him ;  I !  for  thankless  pride  ; — 

'Twas  by  this  hand  that  Mortham  died." 


Wilfrid,  of  gentle  hand  and  heart, 

Averse  to  every  active  part, 

But  most  averse  to  martial  broil, 

From  danger  shrunk,  and  turn'd  from  toil ; 

Yet  the  meek  lover  of  the  lyre 

Nurs'd  one  brave  spark  of  noble  fire ; 

Against  injustice,  fraud,  or  wrong, 

His  blood  beat  high,  his  bond  wax'd  strong. 


CANTO  11.3  ROKEBT. 

Not  his  the  nerves  that  could  sustain 
Unshaken,  danger,  toil,  and  pain : 
•  But,  \vhen  that  spark  blaz'd  forth  to  name, 
He  rose  superior  to  his  frame. 
And  now  it  came,  that  genrous  mood ; 
And,  in  full  current  of  his  blood, 
On  Bertram  he  laid  desp'rate  hand 
Plac'd  firm  his  foot,  and  drew  his  brand. 
"  Should  every  fiend,  to  whom  thou  rt  sold, 
llise  in  thine  aid,  I  keep  my  hold.— 
Arouse  there,  ho  !  take  spear  and  sword  ! 
Attack  the  murd'rer  of  your  Lord  ! 

XXI. 

A  moment,  fix'd  as  by  a  spell, 
Stood  Bertram— It  seem'd  miracle, 
That  one  so  feeble,  soft,  and  tame, 
Set  grasp  on  warlike  Risingham. 
But  when  he  felt  a  feeble  stroke, 
The  fiend  within  the  ruffian  woke  ! 
To  wrench  the  sword  from  Wilfrid  s  hand, 
To  dash  him  headlong  on  the  sand, 
Was  but  one  moment's  work,— one  more 
Had  drench'd  the  blade  in  Wilfrid  s  gore; 
But,  in  the  instant  it  arose, 
To  end  his  life,  his  love,  his  woes, 
A  warlike  form,  that  mark'd  the  scene, 
Presents  bis  rapier  sheath'd  between, 
Parries  the  fast-descending  blow, 
And  steps  'twixt  Wilfrid  and  his  foe; 
Nor  then  unscabbarded  his  brand, 
But,  sternly  pointing  with  his  hand, 
With  monarch's  voice  forbade  the  tight, 
And  rnotion'd  Bertram  from  his  sight. 
"  Go,  and  repent,"  he  said,  "while  timo 
Is  giv'n  thee ;  add  not  crime  to  crime. 

XXIt. 

Mute,  and  uncertain,  and  amaz'd 
As  on  a  vision,  Bertram  gaz'd ! 
'Twas  Mortham's  bearing,  bold  and  nigtt, 
His  sinewy  frame,  his  falcon  eye, 
His  look  and  accent  of  command, 
The  martial  gesture  of  his  hand, 


470  BOKEBT.  [CANTO  tt 

His  stately  form,  spare-built  and  tall, 

His  war-bleach' d  locks — 'twas  Mortham  all. 

Through  Bertram's  dizzy  brain  career 

A  thousand  thoughts,  and  all  of  fear ; 

His  wav'ring  faith  receiv'd  not  quite 

The  form  he  saw  as  Mortham's  sprite, 

But  more  he  fear'd  it,  if  it  stood 

His  lord,  in  living  flesh  and  blood. — • 

What  spectre  can  the  charnel  send, 

So  dreadful  as  an  injur'd  friend? 

Then,  too,  the  habit  of  command, 

Us'd  by  the  leader  of  the  band, 

When  Risingham,  for  many  a  day, 

Had  march'd  and  fought  beneath  his  sway. 

Tam'd  him — and,  with  reverted  face, 

Backwards  he  bore  his  sullen  pace ; 

Oft  stopp'd,  and  oft  on  Mortham  star'd, 

And  dark  as  rated  mastiff  t:'.ar'd ; 

But  when  the  tramp  of  steeds  was  heard, 

Plung'd  in  the  glen,  and  disappear'd, 

Nor  longer  there  the  Warrior  stood, 

Retiring  eastward  through  the  wood  ; 

But  first  to  Wilfrid  warning  gives, 

"  Tell  thou  to  none  that  Mortham  lives." 


Still  rung  these  words  in  Wilfrid's  ear, 

Hinting  he  knew  not  what  of  fear  ; 

When  nearer  came  the  coursers'  tread, 

And,  with  his  father  at  their  head, 

Of  horsemen  arm'd  a  gallant  power 

Rein'd  up  their  steeds  before  the  tower. 

"  Whence  these  pale  looks,  my  son  ?"  he  said 

"Where's  Bertram?— Why  that  naked  blade?" 

Wilfrid  ambiguously  replied, 

(For  Mortham's  charge  his  honour  tied,) 

"  Bertram  is  gone — the  villain's  word 

Avouch'd  him  murd'rer  of  his  lord ! 

Even  now  we  fought — but,  when  your  tread 

Announced  you  nigh,  the  felon  fled." 

In  Wycliffe  s  conscious  eye  appear 

A  guilty  hope,  a  guilty  fear  ; 


CANTO  IL]  ROKEBY.  471 

On  his  pale  brow  the  dew-drop  broke, 
And  his  lip  qufcer'd  as  he  spoke : — 

xxrv. 

"  A  murd'rer  ! — Philip  Mortham  died 
Amid  the  battle's  wildest  tide. 
Wilfrid,  or  Bertram  raves,  or  you  ! 
Yet,  grant  such  strange  confession  true, 
Pursuit  were  vain—  let  him  fly  fax — 
Justice  must  sleep  in  civil  war." 
A  gallant  Youth  rode  near  his  side, 
Brave  Rokeby's  page,  in  battle  tried ; 
That  morn,  an  embassy  of  weight 
He  brought  to  Barnard's  castle  gate, 
And  follow'd  now  in  Wycliffe's  train, 
An  answer  for  his  lord  to  gain. 
His  steed,  whose  arch'd  and  sable  neck 
An  hundred  wreaths  of  foam  bedeck, 
Chard  not  against  the  curb  more  high 
Than  he  at  Oswald's  cold  reply ; 
He  bit  his  lip,  implor'd  his  saint, 
(His  the  old  faith) — then  burst  restraint. 

XXY. 

"  Yes  !  I  beheld  his  bloody  fall, 
By  that  base  traitor's  dastard  ball, 
Just  when  I  thought  to  measure  sword, 
Presumptuous  hope  !  with  Mortham's  lord. 
And  shall  the  murd'rer  'scape,  who  slew 
His  leader,  gen'rous,  brave,  and  true  ? 
Escape,  while  on  the  dew  you  trace 
The  marks  of  his  gigantic  pace  ? 
No  !  ere  the  sun  that  dew  shall  dry, 
False  Risingham  shall  yield  or  die. — 
Ring  out  the  castle  'larum  bell ! 
Arouse  the  peasants  with  the  knell ! 
Meantime  disperse — ride,  gallants,  ride ! 
Beset  the  wood  on  ev'ry  side. 
But  if  among  you  one  there  be, 
That  honours  Mortham's  memory, 
Let  him  dismount  and  follow  me  I 
Else  on  your  crests  sit  fear  and  shame. 
And  foul  suspicion  dog  your  name !" 


472  ROKEB*.  [CAKTO  O. 

XXTI. 

Instant  to  earth  young  REDMOND  sprang ; 
Instant  on  earth  the  harness  rung 
Of  twenty  men  of  Wycliffe's  hand, 
Who  waited  not  their  lord's  command* 
Redmond  his  spurs  from  buskins  drew, 
His  mantle  from  his  shoulders  threw, 
His  pistols  in  his  belt  he  plac'd, 
The  green-wood  gain'd,  the  footsteps  trac'd. 
Shouted  like  huntsman  to  his  hounds, 
"  To  cover,  hark  !" — and  in  he  bounds. 
Scarce  heard  was  Oswald's  anxious  cry, 
"  Suspicion  !  yes — pursue  him — fly — 
But  venture  not,  in  useless  strife, 
On  ruffian  desp'rate  of  his  life, 
Whoever  finds  him,  shoot  him  dead  f 
Five  hundred  nobles  for  his  head  I" 


The  horsemen  gallop'd  to  make  good 

Each  path  that  issued  from  the  wood. 

Loud  from  the  thickets  rung  the  shout 

Of  Redmond  and  his  eager  route; 

With  them  was  Wilfrid,  stung  with  ire, 

And  envying  Redmond's  martial  fire, 

And  emulous  of  fame.  —  But  where 

Is  Oswald,  noble  Mortham's  heir  ? 

He,  bound  by  honour,  law,  and  faith, 

Avenger  of  his  kinsman's  death?  — 

Leaning  against  the  elmin  tree, 

With  drooping  head  and  slacken'd  knee, 

And  clenched  teeth,  and  close-clasp  'd  hands, 

In  agony  of  soul  he  stands  ! 

His  downcast  eye  on  earth  is  bent, 

His  soul  to  ev'ry  sound  is  lent  ; 

For  in  each  shout  that  cleaves  the  air, 

May  ring  disco  v'ry  and  despair. 


What  'vail'd  it  him,  that  brightly  play'd 
The  morning  sun  on  Mortham's  glade? 
All  seems  in  giddy  round  to  ride, 
Like  objects  on  a  stormy  tide, 


CANTO  HO  EOKBBT.  473 

Seen  eddying  by  the  moonlight  dim, 
Imperfectly  to  sink  and  swim. 
What  "vail'd  it,  that  the  fair  domain, 
Its  battled  mansion,  hill  and  plain, 
On  which  the  sun  so  brightly  shone, 
Envied  so  long,  was  now  his  own? 
The  lowest  dungeon,  in  that  hour, 
Of  Brackenbury's  dismal  tow'r, 
Had  been  his  choice,  could  such  a  doom 
Have  open'd  Mortham's  bloody  tomb  ! 
Forc'd,  too,  to  turn  unwilling  ear 
To  each  surmise  of  hope  or  fear, 
Murmur'd  among  the  rustics  round, 
Who  gather'd  at  the  'larum  sound ; 
He  dar'd  not  turn  his  head  away, 
E'en  to  look  up  to  heaven  to  pray, 
Or  call  on  hell,  in  bitter  mood, 
For  one  sharp  death-shot  from  the  wood ! 

XXIX. 

At  length  o'erpast  that  dreadful  space, 
Back  straggling  came  the  scatter'd  chase ; 
Jaded  and  weary,  horse  and  man, 
Return'd  the  troopers,  one  by  one. 
Wilfrid,  the  last,  arriv'd  to  say, 
All  trace  was  lost  of  Bertram's  way, 
Though  Redmond  still,  up  Brignall  wood, 
The  hopeless  quest  in  vain  pursued.— 
O,  fatal  doom  of  human  race  ! 
What  tyrant  passions  passions  chase  I 
Remorse  from  Oswald's  brow  is  gone, 
A  v' rice  and  pride  resume  their  throne ; 
The  p:  jg  of  instant  terror  by, 
They  dictate  thus,  their  slave's  reply : 

XXX. 

"  Ay — let  him  range  like  hasty  hound ! 
And  if  the  grim  wolfs  lair  be  found, 
Small  is  my  care  how  goes  the  game 
With  Redmond,  or  with  Risicgham. 
Nay,  answer  not,  thou  simple  boy  ! 
Thy  fair  Matilda,  all  to  coy 


474  BOKKBT.  [CANTO  IL 

To  thee,  is  of  another  mood 

To  that  bold  youth  of  Erin's  blood. 

Thy  ditties  will  she  freely  praise, 

And  pay  thy  pains  with  courtly  phrase ; 

In  a  rough  path  will  oft  command — 

Accept  at  least — thy  friendly  hand ; 

His  she  avoids,  or,  urg'd  and  pray'd, 

Unwilling  takes  his  proffer' d  aid, 

While  conscious  passion  plainly  speaks 

In  downcast  look  and  blushing  cheeks. 

Whene'er  he  sings,  will  she  glide  nigh, 

And  all  her  soul  is  in  her  eye ; 

Yet  doubts  she  still  to  tender  free 

The  wonted  words  of  courtesy. 

These  are  strong  signs ! — yet  wherefore  Bigh, 

And  wipe,  effeminate,  thine  eye  f 

Thine  shall  she  be,  if  thou  attend 

The  counsels  of  thy  sire  and  friend. 


"  Scarce  wert  thou  gone,  when  peep  of  light 
Brought  genuine  news  of  Marston's  fight. 
Brave  Cromwell  turn'd  the  doubtful  tide, 
And  conquest  bless  d  the  rightful  side; 
Three  thousand  cavaliers  lie  dead, 
Rupert  and  that  bold  Marquis  tied; 
Nobles  and  knights,  so  proud  of  late. 
Must  fine  for  freedom  and  estate. 
Of  these,  committed  to  my  charge, 
Is  Kokeby,  prisoner  at  large ; 
Redmond,  his  page,  arriv'd  to  say 
He  reaches  Barnard's  tow'rs  to-day. 
Right  heavy  shall  his  ransom  be, 
Unless  that  maid  compound  with  thee ! 
Go  to  her  now — be  bold  of  cheer 
While  her  soul  floats  'twixt  hope  and  fear; 
It  is  the  very  change  of  tide, 
When  best  the  femaie  heart  is  tried  — 
Pride,  prejudice,  and  modesty, 
Are  in  the  current  swept  to  isea ; 
And  the  bold  swain,  who  plies  his  oar 
May  lightly  row  his  bark  to  shore." 


CAOTO  HI.]  BQKEBT.  47<5 

CANTO  THIRD. 


THE  hunting  tribes  of  air  and  earth 
Respect  the  brethren  of  their  birth ; 
Nature,  who  loves  the  claim  of  kind, 
Less  cruel  chase  to  each  assign 'd. 
The  falcon,  pois'd  on  soaring  wing, 
Watches  the  wild-duck  by  the  spring ; 
The  slow-hound  wakes  the  fox's  lair  ; 
The  greyhound  presses  on  the  hare ; 
The  eagle  pounces  on  the  lamb ; 
The  wolf  devours  the  fleecy  dam: 
Ev'n  tiger  fell,  and  sullen  bear, 
Their  likeness  and  their  lineage  spare, 
Man,  only,  mars  kind  Nature's  plan, 
And  turns  the  fierce  pursuit  on  man ; 
Plying  war's  desultory  trade, 
Incursion,  flight,  and  ambuscade, 
Since  Nimrod,  Gush's  mighty  son, 
At  first  the  bloody  game  bejun. 

II. 

The  Indian,  prowling  for  his  prey, 

Who  hears  the  settlers  track  his  way. 

And  knows  in  distant  forest  far 

Camp  his  red  brethren  of  the  war  ; 

He,  when  each  double  and  disguise 

To  baffle  the  pursuit  he  tries, 

Low  crouching  now  his  head  to  hide, 

Where  swampy  streams  through  rushes  glide. 

Now  eov'ring  with  the  wither  d  leares 

The  foot-prints  that  the  dew  receives ; 

He,  skill'd  in  ev'ry  silvan  guile, 

Knows  not,  nor  tries,  such  various  wile, 

As  Risingham,  when  on  the  wind 

Arose  the  loud  pursuit  behind. 

In  Redesdale  his  youth  had  heard 

Each  art  her  wily  dalesmen  dar'd, 

When  Rooken-edge,  and  Redswair  high, 

To  bugle  rung  and' blood-hound's  cry, 


476  ROKEBT.  CCAUTO  in. 

Announcing  Jedwood-axe  and  spear. 
And  Lid'sdale  riders  in  the  rear  ; 
And  well  his  vent'rous  life  had  prov'd 
The  lessons  that  his  childhood  lov'd.* 


Oft  had  he  shown,  in  climes  afar, 

Each  attribute  of  roving  war ; 

The  sharpen'd  ear,  the  piercing  eye, 

The  quick  resolve  in  danger  nigh ; 

The  speed,  that  in  the  flight  or  chase, 

Outstripp'd  the  Charib's  rapid  race 

The  steady  brain,  the  sinewy  limb, 

To  leap,  to  climb,  to  dive,  to  swim ; 

The  iron  frame,  inur'd  to  bear 

Each  dire  inclemency  of  air, 

Nor  less  confirm'd  to  undergo 

Fatigue's  faint  chill,  and  famine's  throe. 

These  arts  he  prov'd,  his  life  to  save 

In  peril  oft  by'  land  and  wafe, 

On  Arawaca's  desert  shore, 

Or  where  La  Plata's  billows  roar, 

When  oft  the  sons  of  vengeful  Spain  * 

Track'd  the  marauder's  steps  in  vain. 

These  arts,  in  Indian  warfare  tried, 

Must  save  him  now  by  Greta's  side. 

IT. 

Twas  then,  in  hour  of  utmost  need, 

He  prov'd  his  courage,  art,  and  speed. 

Now  slow  he  stalk'd  with  stealthy  pace. 

Now  started  forth  in  rapid  race, 

Oft  doubling  oack  in  mazy  train. 

To  blind  the  trace  the  dews  retain ; 

Now  clombe  the  rocks  projecting  high, 

To  baffle  the  pursuer's  eye ; 

Now  sought  the  stream,  whose  brawling  sound 

The  echo  of  his  footsteps  drown' d. 

the  very  edre  of  the  Carter- Fell,  which  divides  England' from 
Scotland.  The  Kookeu  is  a  place  upon  Reedwater.  Bertram, 
being  described  as  a  native  of  these  dales,  where  the  habits  of 
hostile  depredation  long  survived  the  uni  n  of  the  crowns,  may 
have  heen,  in  some  decree,  prepared  by  education  lor  the  exerct^A 
of  a  similar  trade  iu  the  wais  of  the  Bucauitrs. 


477 


But  if  the  forest  verge  Le  nears, 

There  trample  steeds,  and  glimmer  spears  ; 

If  deeper  down  the  copse  he  drew, 

He  heard  the  rangers'  loud  halloo, 

Beating  each  cover  while  they  came, 

As  if  to  start  the  silvan  game. 

'Twas  then  —  like  tiger  close  beset 

At  ev'ry  pass  with  toil  and  net, 

'Counter  a  where'er  he  turns  his  glare, 

By  clashing  arms  and  torches'  flare, 

Who  meditates,  with  furious  bound, 

To  burst  on  hunter,  horse,  and  hound,  — 

'Twas  then  that  Bertram's  soul  arose, 

Prompting  to  rush  upon  his  foes  : 

But  as  that  crouching  tiger,  cow'd 

By  brandish'd  steel  and  shouting  crowd, 

Retreats  beneath  the  jungle's  shroud, 

Bertram  suspends  his  purpose  stern, 

And  couches  in  the  brake  and  fern, 

Hiding  his  face,  lest  foemen  spy 

The  sparkle  of  his  swarthy  eye. 

v. 

Then  Bertram  might  the  bearing  trace 
Of  the  bold  youth  who  led  the  chase  ; 
Who  paus'd  to  list  for  ev'ry  sound, 
Climb'd  ev'ry  height  to  look  around, 
Then  rushing  on  with  naked  sword, 
Each  dingle's  bosky  depths  explor'd. 
'Twas  Redmond  —  by  the  azure  eye  ; 
'Twas  Redmond  —  by  the  locks  that  fly 
Disorder'd  from  his  glowing  cheek  ; 
Mien,  face,  and  form,  young  Redmond  speak. 
A  form  more  active,  light,  and  strong, 
Ne'er  shot  the  ranks  of  war  along  ; 
The  modest,  yet  the  manly  mien, 
Might  grace  the  court  of  maiden  queen  ; 
A  face  more  fair  you  well  might  find, 
For  Redmond's  knew  the  sun  and  wind, 
Nor  boasted,  from  their  tinge  when  free, 
The  charm  of  regularity  ; 
But  ev'ry  feature  had  the  pow'r 
To  aid  tn'  expression  of  the  hour  : 


478  KOKEBY.  [CANTO  HI. 

Whether  gay  wit,  and  humour  sly, 
Danc'd  laughing  in  his  light-blue  eye  ; 
Or  bended  brow,  and  glance  of  fire, 
And  kindling  cheek,  spoke  Erin's  ire ; 
Or  soft  and  sadden 'd  glances  show 
Her  ready  sympathy  with  woe ; 
Or  in  that  wayward  mood  of  mind, 
When  various  feelings  are  combin'd, 
When  joy  and  sorrow  mingle  near, 
And  hope's  bright  wings  are  check'd  by  fear, 
And  rising  doubts  keep  transport  down. 
And  anger  lends  a  short-liv'd  frown; 
In  that  strange  mood  which  maids  approve 
Ev'n  when  they  dare  not  call  it  love ; 
With  every  change  his  features  play'd, 
As  aspens  show  the  light  and  shade. 

VI. 

Well  Risingham  young  Redmond  knew  : 
And  much  he  marvell'd  that  the  crew, 
Rous'd  to  revenge  bold  Mortham  dead, 
Were  by  that  Mortham 's  foeman  led ; 
For  never  felt  his  soul  the  woe, 
That  wails  a  gen'rous  foeman  low, 
Far  less  that  sense  of  justice  strong, 
That  wreaks  a  gen'rous  foeman's  wrong. 
But  small  his  leisure  now  to  pause ; 
Redmond  is  first,  wfiate'er  the  cause : 
And  twice  that  Redmond  came  so  near 
Where  Bertram  couch  d  like  hunted  deer, 
The  very  boughs  his  steps  displace, 
Rustled  against  the  ruffian's  face, 
Who,  desp'rate,  twice  prepar'd  to  start, 
And  plunge  his  dagger  in  his  heart ! 
But  Redmond  turn'd  a  difTrent  way, 
And  the  bent  boughs  resum'd  their  sway, 
And  Bertram  held  it  wise,  unseen, 
Deeper  to  plunge  in  coppice  green. 
Thus,  circled  in  his  coil,  the  snake, 
When  roving  hunters  beat  the  brake, 
Watches  with  red  and  glist'ning  eye, 
Prepar'd,  if  heedless  step  draw  nigh, 


CANTO  III.]  ROKKBT.  4~9 

Witli  forked  tongue  and  venom'd  fang 
Instant  to  dart  the  deadly  pang ; 
But  if  the  intruders  turn  aside, 
Away  his  coils  unfolded  glide, 
And  through  the  deep  savannah  wind, 
Some  undisturb'd  retreat  to  find. 

VII. 

But  Bertram,  as  he  hack  ward  drew. 
And  heard  the  loud  pursuit  renew, ' 
And  Redmond's  hollo  on  the  wind, 
Oft  mutter' d  in  his  savage  mind — 
"  Redmond  O'Neale  !  were  thou  aud  I 
Alone  this  day's  event  to  try, 
With  not  a  second  here  to  see, 
But  the  grey  cliff  and  oaken  tree, — • 
That  voice  of  thine,  that  shouts  so  loud, 
Should  ne'er  repeat  its  summons  proud  ' 
No  !  nor  e'er  try  its  melting  power 
Again  in  maiden's  summer  bower." 
Eluded,  now  behind  him  die, 
Faint  and  more  faint,  each  hostile  cry ; 
He  stands  in  Scargill  wood  alone, 
Nor  hears  he  now  a  harsher  tone 
Than  the  hoarse  cushat's  plaintive  cry, 
Or  Greta's  sound  that  murmurs  by ; 
And  on  the  dale,  so  lone  and  wild, 
The  summer  sun,  in  quiet  smil'd. 

VIII. 

He  listen'd  long  with  anxious  heart, 
Ear  bent  to  hear,  and  foot  to  start, 
And,  while  his  stretch'd  attention  glows, 
Refus'd  his  weary  frame  repose. 
'Twas  silence  all — he  laid  him  down, 
Where  purple  heath  profusely  strown. 
And  throatwort  with  its  azure  bell, 
And  moss  and  thyme  his  cushion  swell. 
There,  spent  with  toil,  he  listless  ey'd 
The  course  of  Greta's  playful  tide ; 
Beneath,  her  banks  now  eddying  dun, 
Now  brightly  gleaming  to  the  sun, 
As,  dancing  over  rock  and  stone, 
In  yellow  light  her  currents  shone, 


480  ROKEBT.  CCANTO  IU. 

Matching  in  hue  the  fav'rite  gem 

Of  Albiu's  mountain-diadem. 

Then,  tir'd  to  watch  the  current's  play, 

He  turu'd  his  weary  eyes  away, 

To  where  the  bank  opposing  show'd 

Its  huge,  square  cliffs,  through  shaggy  wood. 

One,  prominent  above  the  rest, 

Rear'd  to  the  sun  its  pale  grey  breast ; 

Around  its  broken  summit  grew 

The  hazel  rude,  and  sable  yew ; 

A  thousand  varied  lichens  dy'd 

Its  waste  and  weather-beaten  side 

And  round  its  rugged  basis  lay, 

By  time  or  thunder  rent  away, 

Fragments,  that,  from  its  frontlet  torn, 

Were  mantled  now  by  verdant  thorn. 

Such  was  the  scene's  wild  majesty, 

That  fill'd  stern  Bertram's  gazing  eye. 

IX. 

In  sullen  mood  he  lay  reclin'd, 
Revolving,  in  his  stormy  mind, 
The  felon  deed,  the  fruitless  guilt, 
His  patron's  blood  by  treason  spilt ; 
A  crime,  it  seem'd,  so  dire  and  dread, 
That  it  had  pow'r  to  wake  the  dead. 
Then,  pond'ring  on  his  life  betray'd 
By  Oswald's  art  to  Redmond's  blade, 
In  treach'rous  purpose  to  withhold, 
So  seem'd  it,  Mortham's  promis'd  gold, 
A  deep  and  full  revenge  lie  vow'd 
On  Redmond,  forward,  fierce,  and  proud ; 
Revenge  on  Wilfrid — on  his  sire 
Redoubl'd  vengeance,  swift  and  dire  ! — 
If,  in  such  mood,  (as  legends  say, 
And  well  believ'd  that  simple  day,) 
The  Enemy  of  Man  has  pow'r 
To  profit  by  the  evil  hour, 
Here  stood  a  wretch,  prepar'd  to  change 
His  soul's  redemption  for  revenge  !* 

*  It  is  agreed  by  all  writers  upon  magic  and  witchcraft,  that  re- 
venge was  the  most  common  motive  for  the  pretended  compact  be- 
tween Satan  arid  his  vas«als. 


CANTO  HI.]  ROKEBT.  481 

But  though  his  vows,  with  such  a  fire 
Of  earnest  and  intense  desire 
For  vengeance  dark  and  fell,  were  made, 
As  well  might  reach  hell's  lowest  shade, 
No  deeper  clouds  the  grove  embrown'd, 
No  nether  thunders  shook  the  ground ; — 
The  demon  knew  his  vassal's  heart, 
And  spar'd  temptation's  needless  art 

x. 

Oft,  mingled  with  the  direful  theme, 
Came  Mortham's  form — Was  it  a  dream  ? 
Or  had  he  seen,  in  vision  true, 
That  very  Mortham  whom  he  slew? 
Or  had  in  living'  flesh  appear'd 
The  only  man  on  earth  he  fear'd  ? — 
To  try  the  mystic  cause  intent, 
His  eyes,  that  on  the  cliff  were  hent, 
'Countered  at  once  a  dazzling  glance, 
Like  sm.oeam  flash'd  from  sword  or  lance. 
At  onoe  he  started  as  for  fight, 
But  not  a  foeman  was  in  sight ; 
He  heard  the  cushat's  murmur  hoarse, 
He  heard  the  river's  sounding  course ; 
The  solitary  woodlands  lay, 
As  slumb'ring  in  the  summer  ray. 
He  gaz'd,  like  lion  rous'd,  around, 
Then  sunk  again  upon  the  ground. 
'Twas  hut,  he  thought,  some  fitful  beam, 
Glanc'd  sudden  from  the  sparkling  stream ; 
Then  plung'd  him  from  his  gloomy  train 
Of  ill-connected  thoughts  again, 
Until  a  voice  behind  him  cried, 
"  Bertram  !  well  met  on  Greta  side." 

XI. 

Instant  his  sword  was  in  his  hand, 
As  instant  sunk  the  ready  brand  ; 
Yet,  dubious  still,  oppos'd  he  stood 
To  him  that  issued  from  the  wood : 
"  Guy  Denzil  ! — is  it  thou  ?"  he  said ; 
"  Do  we  two  meet  in  Scargill  shade  ! — 
Stand  back  a  space  ! — thy  purpose  show 
Whether  thou  com'st  as  friend  or  foe. 


482  ROKEBY.  [CATTTO  nt 

Report  hath  said,  that  Denzil's  namo 

From  Rokeby's  band  was  raz'd  with,  shame." — 

"  A  shame  I  owe  that  hot  O'Neale, 

"Who  told  his  knight,  in  peevish  zeal, 

Of  my  marauding  on  the  clowns 

Of  Calverley  and  Bradford  downs.* 

I  reck  not.     In  a  war  to  strive, 

Where,  save  the  leaders,  none  can  thrive. 

Suits  ill  my  mood ;  and  better  game 

Awaits  us  both,  if  thou'rt  the  same 

Unscrupulous,  bold  Risingham, 

Who  watch'd  with  me  in  midnight  dark, 

To  snatch  a  deer  from  Rokeby-park. 

How  think' st  thou?" — "  Speak  thy  purpose  out ; 

I  love  not  mystery  or  doubt." — 


"  Then,  list. — Not  far  there  lurk  a  crew 

Of  trusty  comrades,  stanch  and  true, 

Glean'd  from  both  factions —  Roundheads,  freed 

From  cant  of  sermon  and  of  creed  ; 

And  Cavaliers,  whose  souls,  like  mine, 

Spurn  at  the  bonds  of  discipline. 

Wiser,  we  judge,  by  dale  and  wold, 

A  warfare  of  our  own  to  hold, 

Than  breathe  our  last  on  battle-down, 

For  cloak  or  surplice,  mace  or  crown. 

Our  schemes  are  laid,  our  purpose  set, 

A  chief  and  leader  lack  we  yet. — 

Thou  art  a  wand'rer,  it  is  said-*, 

For  Mortham's  death,  thy  steps  way-laid, 

Thy  head  at  price — so  say  our  spies, 

Who  range  the  valley  in  disguise. 

Join  then  with  us : — though  wild  debate 

And  wrangling  rend  our  infant  state, 

Each  to  an  equal  loath  to  bow, 

Will  yield  to  chief  renown'd  as  thou.'' — 


»  The  troops  of  the  King,  when  they  first  took  the  field,  were  ai 
well  disciplined  as  could  be  expected  from  cii-oumstanres.  But  ai 
the  circumstances  of  Charles  became  less  lavoorable,  and  hi*  funds 
for  regularly  paying  his  forces  decreased,  habits  of  military  hcn^e 
prevailed  amoug  them  in  greater  excess. 


CANTO  III.J  ROKKBT.  483 

xnr. 

"  E'en  now,"  thought  Bertram,  "  passion-stirr'd, 
I  call'd  on  hell,  and  hell  has  heard! 
What  lack  I,  vengeance  to  command, 
But  of  stanch  comrades  such  a  band  ? 
This  Deuzil,  vow'd  to  ev'ry  evil, 
Might  read  a  lesson  to  the  devil. 
Well,  be  it  so  !  each  knave  and  fool 
Shall  serve  as  my  revenge's  tool." — 
Aloud,  "  I  take  thy  proffer,  Guy, 
But  tell  me  where  thy  comrades  lie  ?" — 
"  Not  far  from  hence,"  Guy  Denzil  said ; 
"  Descend,  and  cross  the  river's  bed, 
Where  rises  yonder  cliff  so  grey." 
"  Do  thou,"  said  Bertram,  "  lead  the  way. 
Then  mutter'd,  "  It  is  best  make  sure ; 
Guy  Denzil's  faith  was  never  pure." 
He  follow'd  down  the  steep  descent, 
Then  through  the  Greta's  streams  they  went ; 
And,  when  they  reach' d  the  farther  shore, 
They  stood  the  lonely  cliff  before. 

XIV. 

With  wonder  Bertram  heard  within 
The  flinty  rock  a  murmur'd  din ; 
But  when  Guy  pull'd  the  wilding  spray, 
And  brambles,  from  its  base  away, 
He  saw,  appearing  to  the  air, 
A  little  entrance,  low  and  square, 
Like  op'ning  cell  of  hermit  lone, 
Dark,  winding  through  the  living  stone. 
Here  enter'd  Denzil,  Bertram  here; 
And  loud  and  louder  on  their  ear, 
As  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Resounded  shouts  of  boist'rous  mirth. 
Of  old,  the  cavern  strait  and  rude, 
In  slaty  rock  the  peasant  hew'd ; 
And  Brignall's  woods,  and  Scargill' 
E'en  now,  o'er  many  a  sister  cave, 
Where,  far  within  the  darksome  rift, 
The  wedge  and  lever  ply  their  thrift 
But  war  had  sileuc'd  rural  trade, 
And  the  deserted  mine  was  made 


4S4  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  m. 

The  banquet-hall  and  fortress  too, 
Of  Denzil  and  his  desp'rate  crew. — 
There  Guilt  his  anxious  revel  kept ; 
There,  on  his  sordid  pallet,  slept 
Guilt-born  Excess,  the  goblet  drain' d 
Still  in  his  slumb'ring  grasp  letain'd; 
Regret  was  there,  his  eye  still  cast 
With  vain  repining  on  the  past ; 
Among  the  feasters  waited  near 
Sorrow,  and  unrepentant  Fear, 
And  Blasphemy,  to  frenzy  driv'n, 
With  his  own  crimes  reproaching  heav'n  ; 
While  Bertram  show'd,  amid  the  crew, 
The  Master-Fiend  that  Milton  drew. 


Hark !  the  loud  revel  wakes  again, 

To  greet  the  leader  of  the  train. 

Behold  the  group  by  the  pale  lamp, 

That  struggles  with  the  earthy  damp. 

By  what  strange  features  Vice  has  known, 

To  single  out  and  mark  her  own  ! 

Yet  some  there  are,  whose  brows  retain 

Less  deeply  stamp' d  her  brand  and  stain. 

See  yon  pale  stripling  !  when  a  boy, 

A  mother's  pride,  a  father's  joy ! 

Now,  'gainst  the  vault's  rude  walls  reclin'd, 

An  early  image  fills  his  mind  : 

The  cottage,  once  his  sire's,  he  sees, 

Embower'd  upon  the  banks  of  Tees ; 

He  views  swe<3t  Winston's  woodland  scene, 

And  shares  the  dance  on  Gainford-green. 

A  tear  is  springing — but  the  zest 

Of  some  wild  tale,  or  brutal  jest, 

Hath  to  loud  laughter  stirr'd  the  rest. 

On  him  they  call,  the  aptest  mate 

For  jovial  song  aud  merry  feat ; 

Fast  flies  his  dream — with  dauntless  air, 

As  one  victorious  o'er  Despair, 

He  bids  the  ruddy  cup  go  round, 

Till  sense  and  sorrow  both  are  drown' d  ; 

And  soon,  in  merry  wassail,  he, 

The  life  of  all  their  revelry, 


CANTO  lit] 

Peals  his  loud  song !— The  muse  has  found 
Her  blossoms  on  the  wildest  ground,  ^ 
'Mid  noxious  weeds  at  random  strew'd, 
Themselves  all  profitless  and  rude. — 
With  desp'rate  merriment  he  sung, 
The  cavern  to  *he  chorus  rung ; 
Yet  mingled  with  his  reckless  glee 
Remorse  s  bitter  agony. 


O,  Brignall  hanks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily, — 

Chorus. 
"O,  Brignall  banks  are  fre.^  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen.  * — 

"  If,  Maiden,  thon  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  bo*,h  tow'r  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we, 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  tpeed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." — 

Chorus. 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  a.e  fair, 

And  GreU,  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 


485 


486  KOKEBT.  COANTO  IU. 

XYII. 

"  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn, 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn, 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood." — • 
"A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." — 

Chorus. 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay  ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

"  With  burnish'd  brand  and  musketoon, 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." — 
"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

Chorus. 
**  And,  0 !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 


"Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die ; 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 


CANTO  HI.]  EOKEBY. 

Chorus. 

Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  gi  >en, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 

When  Edmund  ceased  his  simple  song, 
Was  silence  on  the  sullen  throng, 
Till  wak'd  some  ruder  mate  their  glee 
With  note  of  coarser  minstrelsy. 
But,  far  apart,  in  dark  divan, 
Denzil  and  Bertram  many  a  plan, 
Of  import  foul  and  fierce,  designed, 
While  still  on  Bertram's  grasping  mind 
The  wealth  of  murder' d  Mortham  hung ; 
Though  half  he  fear'd  his  daring  tongue. 
When  it  should  give  his  wishes  birth, 
Might  raise  a  spectre  from  the  earth  ! 


At  length  his  wondrous  tale  he  told  : 
When,  scornful,  smil'd  his  comrade  hold; 
For,  train'd  in  licence  of  a  court, 
Religion's  self  was  Denzil's  sport : 
Then  judge  in  what  contempt  he  held 
The  visionary  tales  of  eld  ! 
His  awe  for  Bertram  scarce  repress' d 
The  unbeliever's  sneering  jest. 
"  'Twere  hard,"  he  said,  "  for  sage  or  seer 
To  spell  the  subject  of  your  fear ; 
Nor  do  I  boast  the  art  renown' d, 
Vision  and  omen  to  expound, 
Yet,  faith  if  I  must  needs  afford 
To  spectre  watching  treasur'd  hoard, 
As  ban-dog  keeps  his  master's  roof, 
Bidding  the  plund'rer  stand  aloof, 
This  doubt  remains — thy  goblin  gaunt 
Hath  chosen  ill  his  ghostly  haunt ; 
For  why  his  jjuard  on  Mortham  hold, 
When  Rokeby  castle  hath  the  gold 
Thy  patron  won  on  Indian  soil, 
By  stealth,  by  piracy,  and  spoil  ?"— • 


4S7 


488  BOKEBY.  [CANTO  in. 


At  this  he  paue.'d — for  angry  shame 

Lower'd  on  the  brow  of  RisingLa,rn. 

He  blush'd  to  think,  that  he  should  seem 

Assertor  of  an  a,iry  dream, 

And  gave  his  wrath  anothe-  tl-eme. 

"  Denzil,"  he  says,  "  thoug'u    .wly  laid, 

Wrong  not  the  mem'ry  of  the  dead ; 

For,  while  he  liv'd,  at  Mortham's  look 

Thy  very  soul,  Guy  Denzil,  shook  ! 

And  when  he  tax'd  thy  breach  of  word 

To  yon  fair  rose  of  Allenford, 

I  saw  thee  crouch  like  chasten'd  hound, 

Whose  back  the  huntsman's  lash  hath  founa. 

Nor  dare  to  call  his  foreign  wealtii 

The  spoil  of  piracy  or  stealth  ; 

He  won  it  bravely  with  his  brand, 

When  Spain  wag'd  warfare  with  our  land. 

Mark,  too — I  brook  no  idle  jeer, 

Nor  couple  Bertram's  name  with  fear ; 

Mine  is  but  half  the  demon's  lot, 

For  I  believe,  but  tremble  not, — 

Enough  of  this. — Say,  why  this  hoard 

Thou  deem'st  at  Rokeby  castle  stor'd; 

Or  think'st  that  Mortham  would  bestow 

His  treasure  with  his  faction's  foe  ?" 


Soon  quench'd  was  Denzil's  ill-tim'd  mirth ; 

Rather  he  would  have  seen  the  earth 

Give  to  ten  thousand  spectres  birth, 

Than  venture  to  awake  to  flame 

The  deadly  wrath  of  Risingham. 

Subroiss  he  answer' d, — "  Mortham's  mind, 

Thou  know'st,  to  joy  was  ill  inclin'd. 

In  youth,  'tis  said,  a  gallant  free, 

A  lusty  reveller  was  he ; 

But  since  return'd  from  over  sea, 

A  sullen  and  a  silent  mood 

Hath  numb'd  the  current  of  his  blood. 

Hence  he  refus'd  each  kindly  call 

To  Rokeby's  hospitable  hall, 


CANTO  IT!.}  KOKEBT. 

And  our  stout  knight,  at  dawn  of  morn 

Who  lov'd  to  hear  the  bugle-horn, 

Nor  less,  when  eve  his  oaks  embrown' d, 

To  see  the  ruddy  cup  go  round, 

Took  urubrage  that  a  friend  so  near 

Refus'd  to  share  his  chase  and  cheer ; 

Thus  did  the  kindred  barons  jar, 

Ere  they  divided  in  the  war. 

Yet,  trust  me,  friend,  Matilda  fair 

Of  Mortham's  wealth  is  destin'd  heir." — 

XXIL 

"  Destin'd  to  her  !  to  yon  slight  maid  ! 
The  prize  my  life  had  well  nigh  paid, 
When  'gainst  Laroche,  by  Cayo's  wave 
I  fought,  my  patron  s  wealth  to  save  ! — 
Denzil.,  I  knew  him  long,  but  ne'er 
Knew  him  that  joyous  cavalier, 
Whom  youthful  friends  and  early  fame 
Call'd  soul  of  gallantry  a;rl  game. 
A  moody  man,  he  sought  our  crew, 
Desp'rate  and  dark,  whom  no  one  knew ; 
And  rose,  as  men  with  us  must  rise, 
By  scorning  life  and  all  its  ties. 
On  each  ad . nature  rash  he  rov'd, 
As  danger  for  itself  he  lov'd  ; 
On  his  sad  brow  nor  mirth  nor  wine 
Could  e'er  one  wrinkled  knot  untwine ; 
111  was  the  omen  if  he  smil'd, 
For  'twas  in  peril  stern  and  wild ; 
But  when  he  laugh' d,  each  luckless  mate 
Might  hold  our  fortune  desperate. 
Foremost  he  fought  in  ev'ry  broil, 
Then  scornful  turu'd  him  from  the  spoil; 
Nay,  often  strove  to  bar  the  way 
Between  his  comrades  and  their  prey  ; 
Preaching,  ev'n  then,  to  such  as  we, 
Hot  with  our  dear-bought  victory, 
Of  mercy  and  humanity. 

XXIII. 

"  I  lov'd  him  -well — His  fearless  part, 
His  gallant  leading,  won  my  heart. 
x2 


489 


490 


ICANTO  TO. 


And  after  each  victorious  firjht, 
'Twas  I  that  wrangl'd  for  his  right, 
Redeein'd  his  portion  of  tiie  prey 
That  greedier  mates  had  torn  away : 
In  field  and  storm  thrice  sav'd  his  life, 
And  once  amid  our  comrades'  strife. — . 
Yes,  I  have  lov  d  thee  !     Well  hath  prov'd 
My  toil,  my  danger,  how  I  lov'd  ! 
Yet  will  I  mourn  no  more  thy  late, 
Ingrate  in  life,  in  death  instate. 
Rise  if  thou  canst !"  he  look'd  around, 
And  sternly  stamp'd  upon  the  ground — 
"  Kise,  with  thy  hearing  proud  and  high, 
Ev'n  as  this  moru  it  met  mine  eve, 
And  give  me,  if  thou  darst,  the  lie  P* 
He  paus'd — then,  calm  and  passion-freed, 
Bade  Denzil  with  his  tale  proceed. 

XXIV. 

"  Bertram,  to  thee  I  need  not  tell, 

What  thou  hast  cause  to  wot  so  well, 

How  Superstition's  nets  were  twin'd 

Around  the  Lord  of  Mortham's  mind  : 

But  since  he  drove  thee  from  his  tower, 

A  maid  he  found  in  Greta 's  bower, 

Whose  speech,  like  David  s  harp,  had  swav, 

To  charm  his  evil  fiend  away. 

I  know  not  if  her  features  mov'd 

Remembrance  of  the  wife  he  lov'd  ; 

But  he  would  gaze  upon  her  eye, 

Till  his  mood  soften  a  to  a  sigh. 

He,  whom  no  living  mortal  sought 

To  question  of  his  secret  thought. 

Now  ev'ry  thought  and  care  comes?' d 

To  his  fair  niece's  faithful  breast ; 

Nor  was  there  aught  of  rich  and  rare, 

In  earth,  in  ocean,  or  in  air, 

But  it  must  deck  Matilda  s  hair. 

Her  love  still  bound  him  unto  iife  ; 

But  then  awoke  the  civil  strife, 

And  menials  b<ir«,  by  his  commands, 

Three  coffers,  wnii  tneu-  iron  bauus, 


CANTO  III.]  ROKEBY.  491 

From  Mortham's  van  It.  ?t  midnight  deep, 
To  her  lone  bower  in  Rokeby-Keep, 
Pond'rous  with  gold  and  plate  of  pride— 
His  gift,  if  lie  iii  battle  died." — 


"  Then  Denzil,  as  I  guess,  lays  train, 
The.-e  iron-banded  chests  to  gain  ; 
Else,  wherefore  should  he  hover  here. 
Where  many  a  peril  waits  him  near, 
For  all  his  feats  of  war  and  peace, 
For  plunder'd  boors,  and  harts  of  grease  ? 
Since  through  the  hamlets  as  he  far'd, 
What  hearth  has  Guy's  marauding  spar'd, 
Or  where  the  chase  that  hath  not  rung 
With  Denzil's  bow,  at  midnight  strung?'' — 
"  I  hold  my  wont — my  rangers  go,    . 
Ev'n  now  to  track  a  milk-white  doe. 
By  llokeby-hall  she  takes  her  lair, 
In  Greta  wood  she  harbours  fair, 
And  when  my  huntsman  marks  her  way, 
What  think'st  thou,  Bertram,  of  the  pray  ? 
Were  Rokeby's  daughter  in  our  power, 
We  rate  her  ransom  at  her  dower." — 


"  'Tis  well ! — there's  vengeance  in  the  thought, 

Matilda  is  by  Wilfrid  sought; 

And  hot-brain'd  Redmond,  too,  'tis  saiJ, 

Pays  lover  s  homage  to  the  maid. 

Bertram  she  scorn  d — If  met  by  chance, 

She  turn'd  from  me  her  shudd'iiug  ghuce, 

Like  a  nice  dame,  that  will  not  brook 

On  what  she  hates  and  loathes  to  look  ; 

She  told  to  Mortham  she  could  ne'er 

Behold  me  without  secret  four, 

Foreboding  evil : — She  may  rue 

To  find  her  prophecy  fall  true  !— 

The  war  has  weeded  Rokeby's  train, 

Few  foll'wers  in  his  halls  remain  ; 

If  thy  scheme  miss,  then,  brief  aud  bold, 

We  are  enow  to  storm  the  hold ; 


492  ROKEBY. 

Bear  off  the  plunder,  and  the  dame. 
And  leave  the  castle  all  in  tiame." — • 


[CANTO  nt 


XXVII. 

"  Still  art  thou  Valour's  vent'rous  son  ! 

Yet  ponder  tirst  the  risk  to  run  : 

The  menials  of  the  castle,  true, 

And  stubborn  to  their  charge,  though  few ; 

The  wall  to  scale — the  moat  to  cross — 

The  wicket-grate — the  inner  fosse" • 

"  Fool !  if  we  tflench  for  toys  like  these, 

On  what  fair  guerdon  cau  we  seize  ? 

Our  hardiest  venture,  to  explore 

Some  wretched  peasant's  fenceless  door, 

And  the  best  prize  we  bear  away, 

The  earnings  of  his  sordid  day." 

"  A  while  thy  hasty  taunt  forbear  : 

In  sight  uf  road  more  sure  and  fair, 

Thou  wouldst  not  choose,  in  blindfold  wrath, 

Or  wantonness,  a  desp'rate  path  ? 

List  then  ; — for  vantage  or  assault, 

From  gilded  vane  to  dungeon  vault, 

Each  pass  of  Rokeby-house  I  know : 

There  is  one  postern,  dark,  and  low, 

That  issues  at  a  secret  spot, 

By  most  neglected  or  forgot. 

Now,  could  a  spial  of  our  train 

On  fair  pretext  admittance  gain, 

That  sally-port  might  be  unbarr'd  : 

Then,  vain  were  battlement  and  ward !" 


"  Now  speak' st  thou  well  :— to  me  the  same, 

If  force  or  art  shall  urge  the  game  ; 

Indiff'rent,  if  like  fox  I  wind, 

Or  spring  like  tiger  on  the  hind. — 

But,  hark  !  our  merry  men  so  gay 

Troll  forth  another  roundelay." — 


"  A  weary  lot  ?s  thine,  fair  maid, 
A  weary  lot  is  thine ! 


CANTO  HI.] 


ROK.EBT.  493 


To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 
And  press  the  rue  hit  T  ije  ! 

A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 
A  feather  of  the  blue, 

A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green, —   . 
No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake. 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said,  "  Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore." — 


"  What  youth  5s  this,  your  band  among, 
The  best  for  minstrelsy  and  song  ? 
In  his  wild  no'es  seem  aptly  met 
A  strain  of  pleasure  and  regret." — 
"  Edmond  of  Winston  is  his  name ; 
The  hamlet  sounded  with  the  fame 
Of  early  hopes  his  childhood  gave, — 
Now  center'd  all  in  Brignall  cave ! 
I  watch  him  well — his  wayward  course 
Shows  oft  a  tincture  of  remorse. 
Some  early  love-shaft  graz'd  his  heart, 
And  oft  the  scar  will  ache  and  smart. 
Yet  is  he  useful ; — of  the  rest, 
By  fits,  the  darling  and  the  jest, 
His  harp,  his  story,  and  his  lay, 
Oft  aid  the  idle  hours  away  : 
When  unemploy'd,  each  fiery  mate 
Is  ripe  for  mutinous  debate. 
He  tuned  his  strings  e'en  now — again 
He  wakes  them,  with  a  blither  strain. 


494  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  IE. 


EO.Sil. 

ALI.F.N-A-IJit.Jt. 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  binning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  \vinning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle  !  come,  hearken  my  tale ! 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side. 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game, 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame  ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  .Jake,  and  the  deer  of  the  vale, 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a-Dale  I 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be  as  bright; 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word  ; 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  vail, 

\Vho  at  Rere-cross*  on  Stanmore  meets  Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come ; 
The  mother,  she  ask'd  of  his  household  and  home  : 
"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on  the  hill, 
My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "shows  gallanter  still ; 
"f  is  the  blue  vault  of  heav'n,  with  its  crescent  so  pale, 
And  with  all  its  blight  spangles  !"  said  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone  ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him  be  gone ; 
Hut  loud,  on  the  mo>vow,  their  wail  and  their  cry : 
He  had  laugh 'd  on  the  lass  with  his  bonny  black  eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale, 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allea-a-Dale  ! 

XXXI. 

"  Thou  see'st  that,  whether  sad  or  gay, 
Love  mingles  ever  in  his  lay. 

*  This  !s  a  fragment  of  an  old  cross,  with  its  pediment,  sur- 
rounded by  an  Intrencbmenti  upnr.  the  very  summit  of  the  waste 
ridge  of  tnaumoi  e,  uear  a.  small  Louie  of  entertainment  called  the 
Spinal. 


CANTO  IV.]  ROKEBT. 

But  when  his  boyish  wayward  fit 
Is  o'er,  he  hath  address  and  wit ; 

0  !  'tis  a  brain  of  fire,  can  ape 
Each  dialect,  each  various  shape." — 

"  Nay,  then,  to  aid  thy  project,  Guy — • 
Soft !  who  comes  here  ?  ' — "  My  trusty  spy. 
Speak,  Hamlin  !  hast  thou  lodged  our  deer  ?" — 
"•  I  have — but  two  fair  stags  are  near. 

1  watch' d  her,  as  she  slowly  stray'd 
From  Eglistone  up  Thorsgill  glade; 
But  Wilfrid  Wycliffe  sought  her  side, 
And  then  young  Redmond,  in  his  pride, 
Shot  down  to  meet  them  on  their  way : 
Much,  as  it  seem'd,  was  theirs  to  say  : 
There's  time  to  pitch  both  toil  and  net, 
Before  their  path  be  homeward  set." 

A  hurried  and  a  \vhisper' d  speech 
Did  Bertram's  will  to  Denzii  teach ; 
Who,  turning  to  the  robber  band, 
Bade  four,  the  bravest,  take  the  brand. 


495 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

i. 

WHEN  Denmark's  raven  soar'd  on  high, 
Triumphant  through  Northumbrian  sky,* 
Till,  hov'ring  near,  her  fatal  croak 
Bade  Reged's  Britons  dread  the  yoke, 
And  the  broad  shadow  of  her  wing 
Blacken'd  each  cataract  and  spring, 
Where  Tees  in  tumult  leaves  his  source, 
Thund'ring  o'er  Caldron  and  High- Force ; 
Beneath  the  shade  the  Northmen  came, 
Fix'd  on  each  vale  a  Runic  name, 

«  About  the  ye^r  of  God  866,  the  Dane*,  niirter  their  celebrated 
lexers  Itieua.  (more  pi.-iierly  Agnar)  and  H.il.ba,  song,  it  is  said, 
of  the  still  inure  celebrated  rl-jin.v.-  I,"dbvog,  inv;i;le<l  Northumber- 
land, bringing  with  them  the  m  igic.il  stan.lard,  so  often  .Mention- 
ed ii  po«ry7  called  R-:.  rt",«*  Ka.mfan.  from  us  b  •arm-  the 
fisrure  ot  a  raveii.  They  rennwml  and  extended  their  incursions, 
and  b  ean  to  colonize,  eguai-taiog  a  kind  of  capital  at  York,  from 
wliicli  they  spread  tlieir  couqueiU  aud  uicuruon*  lu  every  direc- 
tion. 


496 


ECANTO  nr 


Rear'd  high  their  altars'  rugged  stone, 
And  gave  their  Gods  the  land  they  won. 
Then,  Balder,  one  bleak  garth  was  thine, 
And  one  sweet  brooklet's  silver  line, 
And  Woden's  Croft  did  title  gain 
From  the  stern  Father  of  the  Slain ; 
But  to  the  Monarch  of  the  Mace, 
That  held  in  fight  the  foremost  place, 
To  Odin's  son,  and  Siria's  spouse, 
Near  Stratforth  high  they  paid  their  vows, 
Remember'd  Thor's  victorious  fame, 
And  gave  the  dell  the  Thund'rer's  name. 

B. 

Yet  Scald  or  Kemper  err'd,  I  ween, 
Who  gave  that  soft  and  quiet  scene, 
With  all  its  varied  light  and  shade, 
And  every  little  sunny  glade, 
And  the  blithe  brook  that  strolls  along 
Its  pebbled  bed  with  summer  song, 
To  the  grim  God  of  blood  and  scar, 
The  grisly  King  of  Northern  War. 
O,  better  were  its  banks  assign'd 
To  spirits  of  a  gentler  kind  ! 
For  where  the  thicket-groups  recede, 
And  the  rath  primrose  decks  the  mead, 
The  velvet  grass  seems  carpet  meet 
For  the  light  fairies'  lively  feet. 
Yon  tufted  knoll,  with  daisies  strewn 
Might  make  proud  Oberon  a  throne, 
While,  hidden  in  the  thicket  nigh, 
Puck  should  brood  o'er  his  frolic  sly; 
And  where  profuse  the  wood-vetch  clings 
Round  ash  and  elm,  in  verdant  rings, 
Its  pale  and  arure-pencill'd  flower 
Should  canopy  Titania's  bower. 


Here  rise  no  cliffs  the  vale  to  shada ; 
But,  skirting  ev'ry  sunny  glade, 
In  fair  variety  of  green 
The  woodland  lends  its  silvan  screen. 


CA>TO  IV.l  BOKEBT. 

Hoary,  yet  haughty,  frowns  the  oak, 
Its  boughs  hy  weight  of  age?  broke ; 
And  tow'rs  erect,  in  sable  >pire, 
The  pine-tree  scatli'd  by  lightning-fire  ; 
The  drooping  ash  and  birch,  between, 
Hang  their  fair  tresses  o'er  the  green, 
And  all  beneath,  at  random  grow 
Each  coppice  dwarf  of  varied  show, 
Or,  round  the  stems  profusely  twin'd, 
Fling  summer  odours  on  the  wind. 
Such  varied  group  Urbino's  hand 
Round  Him  of  Tarsus  nobly  plann'd, 
What  time  he  bade  proud  Athens  own 
On  Mars's  Mount  the  God  Unknown ! 
Then  grey  Philosophy  stood  nigh, 
Though  bent  by  age,  in  spirit  high : 
There  rose  the  scar-seam'd  vet'ran's  spear, 
There  Grecian  Beauty  bent  to  hear, 
While  Childhood  at  her  foot  was  plac'd 
Or  clung  delighted  to  her  waist. 

IV. 

"  And  rest  we  here,"  Matilda  said, 
And  sate  her  in  the  varying  shade. 
Chance-met,  we  well  may  steal  an  hour, 
To  friendship  due  from  fortune's  power. 
Thou,  Wilfrid,  ever  kind,  must  lend 
Thy  counsel  to  thy  sister-friend ; 
And,  Redmond,  thou,  at  my  behest, 
No  farther  urge  thy  desp'rate  'quest. 
For  to  my  care  a  charge  is,  left, 
Dang'rous  to  one  of  aid  bereft, 
Well  nigh  an  orphan,  and  alone. 
Captive  her  sire,  her  house  o'erthrown." 
Wilfrid,  with  wonted  kindness  grac'd, 
Beside  her  on  the  turf  she  plac'd  ; 
Then  paus'd,  with  downcast  look  and  eye, 
Nor  bade  youiif  Redmond  seat  him  nigh, 
Her  conscious  diffidence  he  saw, 
Drew  backward  as  in  modest  awe. 
And  sat  a  little  space  remov'd, 
Unmark'd  to  gaze  on  her  he  lov'd. 


497 


498  ROKEBr.  [CANTO  IV. 

V. 

Wreath'd  in  its  dark-brown  rings,  her  hair 

Half  hid  Matilda's  forehead  fair. 

Half  hid  and  half  reveal'd  to  view 

Her  full  dark  eye  of  hazel  hue. 

The  rose,  with  faint  and  feeble  streak, 

So  slightly  ting'd  the  maiden's  cheek, 

That  you  had  said  her  hue  was  pale ; 

But  if  she  fac'd  the  summer  gale, 

Or  spoke,  or  sung,  or  quicker  mov'd, 

Or  heard  the  praise  of  those  she  lov'd, 

Or  when  of  int'rest  was  express'd 

Aught  that  wak'd  feeling  in  her  breast, 

The  mantling  blood  in  ready  play 

Rivall'd  the  blush  of  rising  day. 

There  was  a  soft  and  pensive  grace 

A  cast  of  thought  upon  her  face, 

That  suited  well  the  forehead  high, 

The  eyelash  dark,  and  downcast  eye; 

The  mild  expression  spoke  a  mind 

]n  duty  firm,  compos' d,  resign'd: — 

Tis  that  which  Roman  art  has  giv'o, 

To  mark  their  maiden  Queen  of  Heav'i 

In  hours  of  sport,  that  mood  gave  way 

To  Fancy's  light  and  frolic  play ; 

And  when  the  dance,  or  tale,  or  song, 

In  harmless  mirth  sped  time  along, 

Full  oft  her  doting  sire  would  call 

His  Maud  the  merriest  of  them  alL 

But  days  of  war,  and  civil  crime, 

Allow'd  but  ill  such  festal  time, 

And  her  soft  pensiveness  of  brow 

Had  deepen'd  into  sadness  now. 

In  Marston  field  her  father  ta'en, 

Her  friends  dispers'd,  brave  Mortham  slain, 

While  ev'ry  ill  her  soul  foretold, 

From  Oswald's  thirst  of  pow'r  and  gold, 

And  boding  thoughts  that  she  must  part, 

With  a  soft  vision  of  her  heart, — 

All  lower'd  around  the  lovely  maid, 

To  darken  her  dejection's  shade. 


CANTO  IV.]  ROKKBY.  499 

VI. 

Who  has  not  heard — -while  Erin  yet 
Strove  'gainst  the  Saxon's  iron  liit>— 
Who  has  not  heard  how  brave  O'Neale 
In  English  blood  imbrued  his  steel, 
Against  St  George's  cross  bla/.'d  high 
The  banners  of  his  Tanistry, 
To  fiery  Essex  gave  the  foil, 
And  reign'd  a  prince  on  Ulster's  soil? 
But  chief  arose  his  victor  pride, 
When  that  brave  Marshal  fought  and  died,* 
And  Avon-Duff  to  ocean  bore 
His  billows  red  with  Saxon  gore. 
'Twos  first  in  that  disastrous  tight, 
Rokeby  and  Mortham  prov'd  their  might. 
There  had  they  fall'ii  among  the  rest, 
But  pity  touch' d  a  chieftain's  breast ; 
The  Tanist  be  to  great  O'Neale ;+ 
He  check'd  his  foll'wers'  bloody  zeal, 
To  quarter  took  the  kinsman  bold, 
And  bore  them  to  his  mountain-hold, 
Gave  them  each  silvan  joy  to  know, 
Slieve-Donard's  cliffs  and  woods  could  show, 
Shar'd  with  them  Erin's  festal  cheer, 
Show'd  them  the  chase  of  wolf  and  deer, 
AlW,  when  a  fitting  time  was  come, 
Safe  and  unransom'd  sent  them  home, 
Loaded  with  many  a  gift,  to  prove 
A  gen'rous  foe's  respect  and  love. 

»  The  chief  victory  which  Tyrone  obtained  orer  the  English  wa» 
in  a  battle  fo<%ht  near  Black  water,  while  he  besieged  a  fort 
garrisoned  by  the  Kn^'lish,  »  hicli  commanded  the  passes  into  hit 
country.  He  is  said  to  have  entertained  a  personal  animosity 
against  the  kidght-marnhal,  Sir  Henry  Bagmil,  whom  he  ac- 
cused of  detaining  Ihe  ietters  which  he  sent  to  Queen  Klizabeth, 
explan,  rory  of  his  conduct.  :md  ntferina  terms  of  submission.  The 
river,  ca'h-d  t>y  the  English,  Ulxck  water,  is  termed  in  Irish,  Avoii- 
Du(f.  which  has  the  same  signification. 

+  When  iin  Irish  chief  died,  it  iwu  not  the  eldest  sin  who  suc- 
ceeded to  his  authority,  but  a  captain  dented  for  the  o.  casioo  ; 
after  whom  the  eldest  son  tru  general!  r  noininateil  the  Tanist, 
that  is,  the  successor  to  the  c  iptain.  the  Tam-t.  therefore,  of 
O'Neale,  was  tl.e  heir  appirtnt  of  his  power.  This  kind  of  suc- 
cession appean  also  to  have  regulated,  in  >vrv  remote  tioies,  the 
•uccession  to  the  crown  of  Scotland,  ll  would  have  been  impru- 
dent, if  not  impossible,  to  have  averted  a  minor's  right  of  succes- 
iion  in  those  stormy  days,  when  the  principles  of  policy  were  the 
mere  impulses  of  seinsnuesa  and  vioieuce. 


500  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  IV 


Years  speed  away.    On  Rokeby's  head 
Some  touch  of  early  snow  was  shed ; 
Calm  he  enjoy' d,  by  Greta's  wave, 
The  peace  which  Janies  the  Peaceful  gave, 
While  Mortham,  far  beyond  the  main, 
Wag'd  his  fierce  wars  on  Indian  Spain. — 
It  chanc'd  upon  a  wintry  night, 
That  whiten  d  Stanmore's  stormy  height, 
The  chase  was  o'er,  the  stag  was  kill'd, 
In  Rokeby  hall  the  cups  were  fill'd, 
And  by  the  huge  stone  chimney  sate 
The  Knight  in  hospitable  state. 
Moonless  the  sky,  the  hour  was  late, 
When  a  loud  summons  shook  the  gate, 
And  sore  for  entrance  and  for  aid 
A  voice  of  foreign  accent  pray'd. 
The  porter  answer'd  to  the  call, 
And  instant  rush'd  into  the  hall 
A  Man,  whose  aspect  and  attire 
Startled  vhe  circle  by  the  fire. 


His  plaited  hair  in  elf-locks  spread* 

Around  his  bare  and  matted  head ; 

On  leg  and  thigh,  close  stretch'd  and  trim, 

His  vesture  show'd  the  sinewy  limb ; 

In  saffron  dyed,  a  linen  vest 

Was  frequent  folded  round  his  breast ; 

A  mantle  long  and  loose  he  wore, 

Shaggy  with  ice,  and  staiu'd  with  gore, 

He  clasp'd  a  burden  to  his  heart, 

And,  resting  on  a  knotted  dart, 

The  snow  from  hair  and  beard  he  shook, 

And  round  him  gaz'd  with  wilder' d  look. 

*  It  would  seem,  that  the  ancient  Irish  dress  was  (the  bonnet 
excepted)  very  s-imilar  to  that  of  the  Scottish  Highlanders.  The 
want  of  a  covering  on  the  head  waj  supplied  by  the  mode  of  plait- 
ing and  arranging  their  hair,  which  was  c:illed  the  glibbe  .These 
glibbes,  according  to  Spenser,  were  fit  marks  for  a  thief,  since, 
when  he  wished  to  disaruise  himseif,  lie  could  either  cut  it  off  en- 
tirely, or  so  pull  it  over  ius  eyes  ua  to  render  it  very  hard  to 
recognise  him. 


CA*TO  IV.]  KOKEBT.  501 

Then  up  the  hall,  -with  staggVIng  pace 
He  hasten' d  by  the  blaze  to  place. 
Half  lifeiess  from  the  bitter  air, 
His  load,  a  Boy  of  beauty  rare. 
To  Rokeby,  next,  he  louted  low, 
Then  stood  erect  his  tale  to  show, 
With  wild  majestic  port  and  tone, 
Like  envoy  of  some  barb'rous  throne.* 
"Sir  Richard,  Lord  of  Rokeby,  hear  ! 
Turlough  O'Neale  salutes  thee  dear; 

He  graces  thee,  and  to  thy  care 

Young  Redmond  gives,  his  grandson  fair. 

He  bids  thee  breed  him  as  thy  son, 

For  Turlough's  days  of  joy  are  done; 

And  other  lords  have  seiz'd  his  land, 

And  faint  and  feeble  is  his  hand ; 

And  all  the  glory  of  Tyrone 

Is  like  a  morning  vapour  flown. 

To  bind  the  duty  on  thy  soul, 

He  bids  thee  think  on  Erin's  bowl ! 

If  any  wrong  the  young  O'Neale, 

He  bids  thee  think  of  Erin's  steel. 

To  Mortham  first  this  charge  was  due, 

But,  in  his  absence,  honours  you. — 

Js'ow  is  my  master's  message  by, 

And  Fen-aught  will  contented  die." 


His  look  grew  fix'd,  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
He  sunk  when  he  had  told  his  tale ; 
For,  hid  beneath  his  mantle  wide, 
A  mortal  wound  was  in  his  side. 
Vain  was  all  aid — in  terror  wild, 
And  sorrow,  scream'd  the  orphan  Child. 
Poor  Ferranght  rais'd  his  wistful  eyes, 
Aad  faintly  strove  to  soothe  his  cries  ; 
All  reckless  of  his  dying  pain, 
He  blest,  and  blest  him  o'er  again ! 
And  kiss'd  the  little  hands  outspread, 
And  kiss'd  and  cross'd  the  infant  head. 

•  The  Irish  chiefs,  in  their  in'ercourne  with  the  English,  and 
with  »-.vh  other,  were  wont  lu  a, ft  time  the  lauguage  and  style  of 
iuJepuudeut  royalty. 


502  L.OKEBY.  [CANTO  IV. 

And,  in  his  native  tonsrr.e  and  phrase, 
Pray'd  to  each  sahit  to  witch  his  days ; 
Then  all  his  strength  together  drew, 
The  charge  to  Rokeby  to  renew. 
When  half  was  falter  d  from  his  breast, 
And  half  by  dying  signs  expressed, 
"  Bless  thee,  O'Neale !"  he  faintly  said, 
And  thus  the  faithful  spirit  fled. 

x. 

'Twas  long  ere  soothing  might  prevail 
Upon  the  Child  to  end  the  tale : 
And  then  he  said,  that  from  his  home 
His  grandsire  had  been  forc'd  to  roam, 
Which  had  not  been  if  Redmond's  hand 
Had  but  had  strength  to  draw  the  brand, 
The  brand  of  Lenaugh  More  the  Red, 
That  hung  beside  the  grey  wolf's  head. — 
'Twas  from  his  broken  phrase  descried, 
His  foster-father  was  his  guide,* 
Who,  in  his  charge,  from  Ulster  bore 
Letters,  and  gifts  a  goodly  store; 
But  ruffians  met  them  in  the  wood, 
Ferraught  in  battle  boldly  stood, 
Till  wounded  and  o'erpower'd  at  length, 
And  stripp'd  of  all,  his  failing  strength 
Just  hore  him  here — and  then  the  child 
Renew'd  again  his  moaning  wild. 

XI. 

The  tear,  down  childhood's  cheek  that  flows. 
Is  like  the  dew-drop  on  the  rose ; 
When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by, 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  flower  is  dry. 
Won  by  their  care,  the  orphan  Child 
Soon  on  his  new  protector  smil'd, 
With  dimpled  cheek  and  eye  so  fair, 
Through  his  thick  curls  of  flaxen  hair, 
But  blithest  laugh'd  that  cheek  and  eye, 
When  Rokeby's  little  maid  was  nigh ; 

*  There  was  no  tie  more  sacr<M  auionR  the  Irish  than  that  ivliich 
connected  the  f'>ste>-faiher,  as  well  as  the  nurse  herself,  with  the 
Child  they  brought  up. 


CAJJTO  IV.]  ROKEBT. 

"IVas  his,  irith  elder  brother's  priiie, 
Matilda's  tottering  steps  to  guide ; 
His  native  lays  in  Iiish  tongue, 
To  soothe  her  infant  ear  he  sung, 
And  primrose  twin'd  with  daisy  fair, 
To  form  a  chaplet  for  her  hair. 
By  lawn,  hy  grove,  by  brooklet's  stratid, 
The  children  still  were  hand  and  hand, 
And  good  Sir  Richard  smiling  eyed 
The  early  knot  so  kindly  tied. 

XII. 

But  summer  months  bring  wilding  shoott 
From  bud  to  bloom,  from  bloom  to  fruit ; 
And  years  draw  on  our  human  span, 
From  child  to  boy,  from  boy  to  man ; 
And  soon  in  Rokeby's  wood    is  seen 
A  gallant  boy  in  hunter's  green. 
He  loves  to  wake  the  felon  boar, 
In  his  dark  haunt  on  Greta's  shore, 
And  loves,  against  the  deer  so  dun, 
To  draw  the  shaft,  or  lift  the  gun  : 
Yet  more  he  loves,  in  autumn  prime, 
The  hazel's  spreading  boughs  to  climb, 
And  down  its  cluster'd  stores  to  hail, 
Where  young  Matilda  holds  her  veil. 
And  she,  whose  veil  receives  the  shower, 
Is  alter' d  too,  and  knows  her  power ; 
Assumes  a  monitress's  pride, 
Her  Redmond's  dang'rous  sports  to  chide; 
Yet  listens  still  to  hear  him  tell 
How  the  grim  wild-boar  fought  and  feU, 
How  at  his  fall  the  bugle  rung. 
Till  rock  and  greenwood  answer  flung; 
Then  blesses  her,  that  man  can  find 
A  pastime  of  such  savage  kind ! 

XIII. 

But  Redmond  knew  to  weave  his  tale 
So  well  with  praise  of  wood  and  dale, 
And  knew  so  well  each  point  to  trace, 
Gives  living  int  rest  to  the  chas>e, 
And  knew  so  well  o'er  all  to  throw 
His  spirit's  wild  romantic  tflow. 


503 


£04  ROKKHY.  [CANTO  TV. 

That,  while  she  blam'd,  and  •wbiie  she  fear'd, 

She  lov'd  each  vent'rous  tale  sne  hoitrd. 

Oft,  too,  when  drifted  snow  and  rain 

To  bow'r  and  hall  their  steps  restrain. 

Together  they  explor'd  the  page 

Of  glowing  bard  or  gifted  sage ; 

Oft  p!ac'd  the  ev'ning  fire  beside, 

The  u.iustrel  art  alternate  tried, 

While  gladsome  harp  and  lively  lay 

Bade  winter  night  flit  fast  away : 

Thus  from  their  childhood  blending  still 

Their  sport,  their  study,  and  their  skill, 

An  union  of  the  soul  they  prove, 

But  must  not  think  that  it  was  love. 

But  though  they  dar'd  not,  envious  Fame 

Soon  dar  a  to  give  that  union  name ; 

And  when  so  often,  side  by  side, 

From  year  to  year  the  pair  she  ey'd, 

She  sometimes  blam'd  the  good  old  Knight, 

As  dull  of  ear  and  dim  of  sight, 

Sometime  his  purpose  would  declare, 

That  young  O'Neale  should  wed  his  heir. 


The  suit  of  Wilfrid  rent  disguise 
And  bandage  from  the  lovers'  eyes ; 
'Twas  plain  that  Oswald,  for  his  son, 
Had  Rokeby's  favour  well  nigh  won. 
Now  must  they  meet  with  change  of  clieer. 
With  mutual  looks  of  shame  and  fear; 
Now  must  Matilda  stray  apart, 
To  school  her  disobedient  heart : 
And  Redmond  now  alone  must  rue 
The  love  he  never  can  subdue. 
But  factions  rose,  and  Rokeby  swarc, 
No  rebel's  son  should  wed  his  heir; 
And  Redmond,  mirtur'd  while  a  child 
In  many  a  bard's  traditions  wild, 
Now  sought  the  lonely  wood  or  stream 
To  cherish  there  a  happier  dream, 
Of  maiden  won  by  sword  or  laiiCO, 
As  in  the  regions  of  romance ; 


CANTO  IV.]  ROKKBT.  505 

And  count  the  heroes  of  his  line, 
Great  Nial  of  the  Pledges  Nine,* 
Shane- Dymasf  wild,  and  Geraldine,t 
And  Connan-more,  who  vow'd  his  race 
For  ever  to  the  fight  and  chase, 
And  curs'd  him,  of  his  lineage  born, 
Should  sheathe  the  sword  to  reap  the  corn, 
Or  leave  the  mountain  and  the  wold, 
To  shroud  himself  in  castled  hold. 
From  such  examples  hope  he  drew. 
And  brightea'd  as  the  trumpet  blew. 

XV. 

If  brides  were  won  by  heart  and  blade, 
Redmond  had  both  his  cause  to  aid, 
And  all  beside  of  nurture  rare 
That  might  beseem  a  baron's  heir. 
TurloughO'Neale,  in  Erin's  strife, 
On  Rokeby's  Lord  bestow'd  his  life, 
And  well  did  Rokeby's  gen'rous  Knight 
Young  Redmond  for  the  deed  requite. 
Nor  was  his  lib'ral  care  and  cost 
Upon  the  gallant  stripling  lost : 
Seek  the  North  Riding  broad  and  wide, 
Like  Redmond  none  could  steed  bestride. 
From  Tynemouth  search  to  Cumberland, 
Like  Redmond  none  could  wield  a  brand ; 
And  then,  of  humour  kind  and  free, 
And  bearing  him  to  each  degree 
With  frank  and  fearless  courtesy, 
There  never  youth  was  form'd  to  steal 
Upon  the  heart  like  brave  O'Neale. 

XVI. 

Sir  Richard  lov'd  him  as  his  son ; 
And  when  the  days  of  peace  were  done, 

*  Neal  Naighvallaeh.  or  Of  the  Nine  Hostages,  is  said  to  have 
been  mmitrch  «<f  ail  Ireland,  during  the  end  of  the  fourth  or  be- 
giiminu  of  the  fifth  century. 

+  Thi*  Shane-Ovmas,  or  John  the  Wanton,  held  the  title  an.l 
power  of  O'Ne  ile  in  the  earlier  part  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  against 
whom  he  rebelled  repeatedly. 

"•  The  O'Neals  were  closely  allied  with  this  powerful  and  war- 
like f ami  Iv  Thi»  Cm-More  cur««l  any  "fliis  posterity  who; »!m«ld 
le..rn  the  'Kns\M>  lansuu-e,  sow  corn,  or  build  houses,  so  as  to  uv 
Tit«  the  English  to  settle  in  tlieir  country. 


506  BOKEBT.  [CANTO  IV 

And  to  the  gales  of  war  he  gave 
The  banner  of  his  sires  to  wave, 
Redmond,  d'stinguish'd  by  his  care, 
He  chose  thuc  honoured  flag  to  bear, 
And  nam'J  his  page,  the  next  degree 
In  that  old  time  to  chivalry.* 
In  five  pitch' d  fields  he  well  maintain'd 
The  honour'd  place  his  worth  obtain' d, 
And  high  was  Redmond's  youthful  name 
Blaz'd  in  the  roll  of  martial  fame. 
Had  fortune  sniil'd  on  Marston  fight, 
The  eve  had  seen  him  dubb  d  a  knight ; 
Twice,  'mid  the  battle's  doubtful  strife, 
Of  Rokeby's  Lord  he  saved  the  life, 
But  when  he  saw  him  pris'ner  made, 
He  kiss'd  and  then  resign'd  his  blade, 
And  yielded  him  an  easy  prey 
To  those  who  led  the  Knight  away ; 
Resolv'd  Matilda's  sire  should  prove, 
In  prison,  as  in  fight,  his  love. 


When  lovers  meet  in  adverse  hour. 

"Fis  like  a  sun-glimpse  through  a  shower, 

A  watery  ray,  an  instant  seen, 

The  darkly  closing  clouds  between. 

As  Redmond  on  the  turf  reclin'd, 

The  past  and  present  fill'd  his  mind : 

"  It  was  not  thus,"  Affection  said, 

"  I  dream'd  of  my  return,  dear  maid ! 

Not  thus,  when  from  thy  trembling  hand, 

I  took  the  banner  and  the  brand, 

When  round  me  as  the  bugles  blew, 

Their  blades  three  hundred  warriors  drew, 

And,  while  the  standard  I  unrolFd, 

Clash'd  their  bright  arms,  with  clamour  bold* 


*  Oririnally,  the  order  of  chivalry  embraced  three  ranks:— I. 
The  Paye  ;  2.  The  Squire :  3.  The  KiiiglH.— But,  before  the  reign 
of  Charles  I.,  the  custom  of  serving  as  a  squire  had  fallen  into  dis- 
use, though  the  or.ler  of  the  pace  was  still,  to  a  certain  degree,  ill 
observance.  This  state  of  servitude  was  so  far  from  inferring  any 
thing  degrading,  that  it-was  considered  as  the  regular  school  foi 
acquiriug  every  quality  necessary  tar  future  distiuctioji. 


CANTO  IV.]  KOKEBV. 

Where  is  that  banner  now? — its  pride 
Lies  'whelm' d  in  Ouse's  sullen  tide  ! 
Where  now  these  -warriors? — in  their  gore, 
They  cumber  Marstou's  dismal  moor ; 
And  what  avails  a  useless  brand, 
Held  by  a  captive's  shackled  hand, 
That  only  would  his  life  retain, 
To  aid  thy  sire  to  bear  his  chain!" 
Thus  Redmond  to  himself  apart ; 
Nor  lighter  was  his  rival's  heart ; 
For  Wilfrid,  while  his  gen'rous  soul 
Disdain'd  to  profit  by  control, 
By  many  a  sign  could  mark  too  plain, 
Save  with  such  aid,  his  hopes  were  vain.— 
But  now  Matilda's  accents  stole 
On  the  dark  visions  of  their  soul, 
And  bade  their  mournful  musing  fly, 
Like  mLit  before  the  zephyr's  sigh. 


"  I  need  not  to  my  friends  recall, 
How  Mortham  shunn'd  my  father's  hall ; 
A  man  of  silence  and  of  woe, 
Yet  ever  anxious  to  bestow 
On  my  poor  self  whate'er  could  prove 
A  kinsman's  confidence  and  love. 
My  feeble  aid  could  sometimes  chase 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  for  a  space  : 
But  oft'uer,  fix'd  beyond  my  pow'r, 
I  mark'd  his  deep  despondence  low'r. 
One  dismal  cause,  by  all  unguess'd, 
His  fearful  confidence  confess'd ; 
And  twice  it  was  my  hap  to  see 
Examples  of  that  agony. 
Which  for  a  season  can  o'erstrain 
And  wreck  the  structure  of  the  brain. 
He  had  the  awful  pow'r  to  know 
Th'  approaching  mental  overthrow. 
And  while  his  mind  had  courage  ye* 
To  struggle  with  the  dreadful  lit. ' 
The  victim  writh'd  against  its  throes, 
Like  wretch  beneath  a  murd'rer's  blows. 


507 


508  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  IV. 

This  malady,  I  well  could  mark, 
Sprung  from  some  direful  cause  and  dark  • 
But  still  he  kept  its  source  conceal' d, 
Till  arming  for  the  civil  Held ; 
Then  in  my  charge  he  hade  me  hold 
A  treasure  huge  of  gems  and  gold, 
With  this  disjointed  dismal  scroll, 
That  tells  the  secret  of  his  soul. 
In  such  wild  words  as  oft  betray 
A  mind  by  anguish  forc'd  astray." 

XIX. 

MORTHAM'S  HISTORY. 
"  Matilda!  thou  hast  seen  me  start, 
As  if  a  dagger  thrill'd  my  heart, 
\Vhe;i  it  has  happ'd  some  casual  phrase 
Wak'd  mem'ry  of  my  former  days. 
Believe  that  few  can  backward  cast 
Their  thoughts  with  pleasure  on  the  past ; 
But  I ! — my  youth  v;as  rash  and  vain, 
And  blood  and  rage  my  manhood  stain, 
And  my  grey  hairs  must  now  descend 
To  my  cold  grave  without  a  friend ! 
E'en  thou,  Matilda,  wilt  disown 
Thy  kinsman,  when  his  guilt  is  known. 
And  must  I  lift  the  bloody  veil, 
That  hides  my  dark  and  fatal  tale ! 
I  must — I  will — Pale  phantom,  cease ! 
Leave  me  one  little  hour  in  peace  ! 
Thus  haunted,  think'st  thou  I  have  skill, 
Thine  own  commission  to  fulfil;' 
Or,  while  thou  point'st  with  gesture  fierce, 
Thy  blighted  cheek,  thy  bloody  hearse, 
How  can  I  paint  thee  as  thou  wert, 
&o  t.ir  in  face,  so  warm  in  heart  !— 

XX. 

"  Yes,  she  was  fair  !— Matilda,  thou 
Hast  a  soft  sadness  on  thy  brow ; 
But  hers  was  like  the  sunny  glow, 
That  laughs  on  earth  and  ail  behiw  ! 
We  wedded  secret — there  was  need— 
DifFring  in  country  and  in  creed ; 


CANTO  IV.]  BOKEBT. 

And  when  to  Mortham's  tow'r  she  came, 
We  mention' d  not  her  race  and  name, 
Until  thy  sire,  -who  fought  afar, 
Should  turn  him  home  from  foreign  war, 
On  whose  kind  influence  we  relied 
To  soothe  her  father  s  ire  and  pride. 
Few  months  we  liv'd  retir'd,  unknown, 
To  all  but  one  dear  friend  alone, 
One  darling  friend — I  spare  his  shame, 
I  will  not  write  the  villain's  name ! 
My  trespasses  I  might  forget, 
And  sue  in  vengeance  for  the  debt 
Due  by  a  brother  worm  to  me, 
Ungrateful  to  God's  clemency, 
That  spar'd  me  penitential  time, 
Nor  cut  me  off  amid  my  crime.— 

XXI. 

"  A  kindly  smile  to  all  she  lent, 
But  on  her  husband's  friend  'twas  bent 
So  kind,  that  from  its  harmless  glee, 
The  wretch  misconstrued  villany. 
Repuls'd  in  his  presumptuous  love, 
A  'vengeful  snare  the  traitor  wove. 
Alone  we  sat— the  flask  had  now'd, 
My  blood  with  heat  unwonted  glow'd, 
When  through  the  alley'd  walk  we  spied 
With  hurried  step  my  Edith  glide, 
Cow'ring  beneath  the  verdant  screen, 
As  one  unwilling  to  be  seen. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  fiendish  smile, 
That  curl'd  the  traitor's  cheek  the  while 
Fiercely  I  question'd  of  the  cause; 
He  made  a  cold  and  artful  pause, 
Then  pray'd  it  might  not  chafe  my^mood- 
'  There  w'as  a  gallant  in  the  wood  P — 
We  had  been  shooting  at  the  deer ; 
My  cross-bow  (evil  chance !)  was  near : 
Fhat  ready  weapon  of  my  wrath 
t  caught,  and,  hasting  up  the  path, 
Jn  the  yew  grove  my  wife  I  found, 
A  stranger's  arms  her  neck  had  bound ; 


609 


510  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  IT. 

I  mark'd  his  heart — the  bow  I  drew — 
I  loos' d  the  shaft — 'twas  more  than  true  1 
I  found  my  Edith's  dying  charms 
Lock'd  in  her  raurder'd  brother's  arms ! 
He  came  in  secret  to  inquire 
Her  state,  and  reconcile  her  sire. 

XXIT. 

"  All  fled  my  rage — the  villain  first, 
Whose  craft  my  jealousy  had  nurs'd; 
He  sought  in  far  and  foreign  clime 
To  'scape  the  vengeance  of  his  crime. 
The  manner  of  the  slaughter  done 
Was  known  to  few,  my  guilt  to  none; 
Some  tale  my  faithful  steward  fram'd 
I  know  not  what — of  shaft  mis-aim'd ; 
And  ev'n  from  those  the  act  who  knew, 
He  hid  the  hand  from  which  it  flew. 
Untouch'd  by  human  laws  I  stood, 
But  GOD  had  heard  the  cry  of  blood  I 
There  is  a  blank  upon  my  mind, 
A  fearful  vision  ill-delin'd, 
Of  raving  till  my  flesh  was  torn, 
Of  dungeon-bolts  and  fetters  worn — • 
And  when  I  wak'd  to  woe  more  mild, 
And  question'd  of  my  infant  child — 
(Have  I  not  written,  thai  she  bare 
A  boy,  like  summer  morning  fair?) — • 
With  looks  confus'd  my  menials  tell, 
That  armed  men  in  Mortham  dell 
Beset  the  nurse's  evening  way, 
And  bore  her,  with  her  charge  away. 
My  faithless  friend,  and  none  but  he, 
Could  profit  by  this  villany  ; 
Him  then,  I  sought,  with  purpose  dread 
Of  treble  vengeance  on  his  head  ! 
He  'scap'd  me — but  my  bosom's  wound 
Some  faint  relief  from  wand'ring  found  ; 
And  over  distant  land  and  sea, 
I  bore  my  load  of  misery. 

XXIII. 

"  'Twas  then  that  fate  my  footsteps  led 
Among  a  daring  crew  and  diead, 


CA3TOIV.] 


ROKEBT. 


With  whom  full  oft  my  hated  life, 

I  ventur'd  in  such  desp'rate  strife, 

That  e'en  my  fierce  associates  saw 

INlv  frantic  deeds  with  doubt  and  awe. 

Much  then  I  learo'd,  and  much  can  show, 

Of  human  guilt  and  human  woe, 

Yet  ne'er  have,  in  my  wand'  rings,  known 

A  wretch,  whose  sorrows  match'd  my  own  !— 

It  chanc'd,  that  after  battle  fray, 

Upon  the  bloody  field  we  lay  ; 

The  yellow  moon  her  lustre  shed 

Upon  the  wounded  and  the  dead, 

While,  sense  in  toil  and  wassail  drown'd, 

My  ruffian  comrades  slept  around, 

There  came  a  voice  —  its  silver  tone 

Was  soft,  Matilda,  as  thine  own  — 

'  Ah,  wretch  P  it  said,  *  \\hat  mak'st  thou  new, 

While  unaveng'd  my  bloody  bier, 

While  unprotected  lives  mine  heir, 

Without  a  father's  name  and  care  ?* 


"  I  heard — obey'd — and  homeward  drew; 
The  fiercest  of  our  desp'rate  crew 
I  brought  at  time  of  need  to  aid 
My  purpos'd  vengeance,  long  delay'd. 
But,  humble  be  my  thanks  to  Heav'n,  ^ 
That  better  hopes  and  thoughts  has  giv'n, 
And  by  our  Lord's  dear  pray'r  has  taught, 
Mercy  by  mercy  must  be  bought ! — 
I  et  me  in  misery  rejoice — • 
I've  seen  his  face — I've  heard  his  voice — • 
I  claim'd  of  him  my  only  child — 
As  he  disown'd  the  theft,  he  smil'd! 
That  very  calm  and  callous  look, 
That  fiendish  sneer  his  visage  took, 
As  when  he  said,  in  scornful  mood, 
'  There  is  a  gallant  in  the  wood  P — 
I  did  not  slay  him  as  he  stood-— 
All  praise  be  to  my  Mak«r  r'^'n  '• 
Long  sulTrance  is  one  path  to  heav'n," 


512  ROKEBT. 

XXV. 

Thus  far  the  woeful  tale  "was  heard, 
When  something  in  the  thicket  stirr'd. 
Up  Redmond  sprung ;  the  villain  Guy, 
(For  he  it  was  that  lurk'd  so  nigh,) 
Drew  back — he  durst  not  cross  his  steel 
A  moment's  space  with  brave  O'Neale, 
For  all  the  treasur'd  gold  that  rests 
In  Mortham's  iron-banded  chests. 
Redmond  resum'd  his  seat  — he  said, 
Some  roe  was  rustling  in  the  shade. 
Bertram  laugh'd  grimly,  when  he  saw 
His  tim'rous  comrade  backward  draw. 
"  A  trusty  mate  art  thou,  to  fear 
A  single  arm,  and  aid  so  near ! 
Yet  have  I  seen  thee  mark  a  deer. 
Give  me  my  carabine — I'll  show 
An  art  that  thou  wilt  gladly  know, 
How  thou  may'.st  safely  quell  a  foe." 

XXVI. 

On  hands  and  knees  fierce  Bertram  drew 

The  spreading  birch  and  Imels  through, 

Till  he  had  Redmond  full  in  view ; 

The  gun  he  levell'd — Mark  like  this 

Was  Bertram  never  known  to  miss, 

When  fair  oppos'd  to  aim  there  sate 

An  object  of  his  mortal  hate. 

That  day  young  Redmond's  death  had  seen, 

But  twice  Matilda  came  between 

The  carabine  and  Redmond's  breast, 

Just  ere  the  spring  his  finger  press'd. 

A  deadly  oath  the  ruffian  swore, 

But  yet  his  fell  design  forbore : 

"  It  ne'er,''  he  mutter  d,  "  shall  be  said, 

That  thus  I  scath'd  thee,  haughty  maid!" 

Then  mov'd  to  seek  more  open  aim, 

When  to  his  side  Guy  Denzil  came  : 

"  Bertram,  forbear  ! — we  are  undone 

For  ever,  if  thou  fire  the  gun. 

By  all  the  fiends,  an  aimed  i'orce 

Descends  the  dell,  of  foot  and  horse ! 


[CANTO  IV- 


CANTO  IV.]  ROKEBT.  613 

We  perish  if  they  hear  a  shot — • 
Madman  !  we  have  a  s-fer  plot — 
Nay,  friend,  be  nil  d,  and  bear  thee  back  ! 
Behold,  down  yonder  hollow  track, 
The  warlike  leader  of  the  band 
Comes,  with  his  broadsword  in  his  hand." 
Bertram  look'd  up  ;  he  saw,  he  knew 
That  Denzil's  fears  had  counsell'd  true, 
Then  curs'd  his  fortune  and  withdrew, 
Threaded  the  woodlands  unde.scried, 
And  gain'd  the  cave  on  Greta  side. 

XXVII. 

They  whom  dark  Bertram,  in  his  wrath, 
Doom'd  to  captivity  or  death, 
Their  thoughts  to  one  sad  subject  lent, 
Saw  not  nor  heard  the  ambushment. 
Heedless  and  unconcern'd  they  sate, 
While  on  the  very  verge  of  tate  ; 
Heedless  and  unconcern'd  reraain'd. 
When  Heaven  the  murd'rer's  arm  restrain'd ; 
As  ships  drift  darkling  down  the  tide, 
Nor  see  the  shelves  o'er  which  they  glide. 
Uninterrupted  thus  they  heard 
What  Mortham's  closing  tale  declar'd, 
He  spoke  of  wealth  as  of  a  load, 
By  Fortune  on  a  wretch  bestow'd, 
In  bitter  mockery  of  hate, 
His  cureless  woes  to  aggravate  ; 
But  yet  he  pray'd  Matilda's  care 
Might  save  that  treasure  for  his  heir—- 
His Edith's  son — for  still  he  rav'd 
As  confident  his  life  was  sav'd; 
In  frequent  vision,  he  averr'd, 
He  saw  his  face,  his  voice  he  heard, 
Then  argued  calm — had  murder  been, 
The  blood,  the  corpses,  had  been  seen ; 
Some  had  pretended  too,  to  mark 
On  Winderuiere  a  stranger  bark, 
Whose  crew,  with  jealous  care,  yet  mild, 
Guarded  a  female  and  a  child. 
While  these  faint  proofs  he  toid  anJ  piess'd 
Hope  seem'd  to  kiudle  in  his  breast ; 

T  'I 


514  ROKEBT.  CCAJJTO  iv. 

Though  inconsistent,  vague,  and  Tain, 
It  warp'd  his  judgment,  aud  his  brain. 

XXVIII. 

These,  solemn  words  his  story  close  : — 
"  Heav'n  witness  for  me,  that  I  chose 
My  part  in  this  sad  civil  fight, 
Mov  d  by  no  cause  but  England's  right. 
My  country's  groans  have  bid  me  draw 
My  sword  for  gospel  and  for  law  ; — 
These  righted,  I  fling  arms  aside, 
And  seek  my  son  through  Europe  wide. 
My  wealth,  on  which  a  kinsman  nigh, 
Already  casts  a  grasping  eye, 
With  thee  njay  unsuspected  lie. 
When  of  my  death  Matilda  hears, 
Let  her  retain  her  trust  three  years  ; 
If  none,  from  me,  the  treasure  claim, 
Perish'd  is  Mortham's  race  and  name. 
Then  let  it  leave  her  gen'rous  hand, 
And  flow  in  Loi.'iity  o'er  the  land; 
Soften  the  wounded  pris'ner's  lot, 
Rebuild  the  peasant's  ruiu'd  cot ; 
So  spoils,  acquir'd  by  tight  afar, 
Shall  mitigate  domestic  war." 

XXIX. 

The  gen'rous  youths,  who  well  had  known, 

Of  Mortham's  mind  the  pow'rful  tone, 

To  that  high  mind,  by  sorrow  swerv'd. 

Gave  sympathy  his  woes  deserv'd ; 

But  Wilfrid  chief,  who  saw  reveal'd, 

Why  Mortham  wish'd  his  life  conceal'd, 

In  secret,  doubtless,  to  pursue 

The  schemes  his  wilder' d  fancy  drew. 

Thoughtful  he  heard  Matilda  tell, 

That  she  would  share  her  father's  cell, 

His  partner  of  captivity, 

Where'er  his  prison  house  should  be ; 

Yet  griev'd  to  think  that  Rokeby-hall, 

Dismantled,  and  forsook  by  all, 

Open  to  rapine  and  to  stealth, 

Had  now  no  safe-guard  for  the  wealth. 


CANTO  IV.]  ROKEBT.  515 

Intrusted  by  her  kinsman  kind, 

And  for  such  noble  use  design'd. 

"  Was  Barnard  Castle  then  her  choice," 

Wilfrid  inquir'd  with  hasty  voice, 

"  Since  there  the  victor's  laws  ordain, 

Her  father  must  a  space  remain?" 

A  flutter'd  hope  his  accents  shook, 

A  flutter'd  joy  was  in  his  look. 

Matilda  hasten 'd  to  reply, 

For  anger  fiash'd  in  Redmond's  eye ; — 

"  Duty,"  she  said,  with  gentle  grace, 

"  Kind  Wilfrid,  has  no  choice  of  place ; 

Else  had  I  for  my  sire  assign'd 

Prison  less  galling  to  his  mind, 

Than  that  his  wild-wood  haunts  which  se_^ 

And  hears  the  murmur  of  the  Tees, 

Recalling  thus,  with  ev'ry  glance, 

What  captive's  sorrow  can  enhance  ; 

But  where  those  woes  are  highest,  there 

Needs  Rokeby  most  his  daughter's  care." 

XXX. 

He  felt  the  kindly  check  she  gave, 

And  stood  abash'd — then  answer' d  grave : — 

"  I  sought  thy  purpose,  noble  maid, 

Thy  doubts  to  clear,  thy  schemes  to  aid. 

I  have  beneath  mine  own  command, 

So  wills  my  sire,  a  gallant  band, 

And  well  could  send  some  horseman  wight, 

To  bear  the  treasure  forth  by  night, 

And  so  bestow  it  as  you  deem 

In  these  ill  days  may  safest  seem." — 

"  Thanks,  gentle  Wilfrid,  thanks,"  she  said  : 

"  O,  be  it  not  one  day  delay'd  ! 

And,  more  thy  sister-friend  to  aid, 

Be  thou  thyself  content  to  hold, 

In  thine  own  keeping,  Mortham's  gold, 

Safest  with  thee."— While  thus  she  spoke, 

Ann'd  soldiers  on  their  converse  broke, 

The  same  of  whose  approach  afraid, 

The  ruffians  left  their  amlni^    <Je. 

Their  chief  to  Wilfrid  bended  low, 

Then  look'd  around  as  for  a  foe. 


516 


[CANTO  V. 


"  What  mean'st  them,  friend,"  young  Wyclifie  said 

"  Why  thus  in  arms  beset  the  glade  ?" 

"  That  would  I  gladly  learn  from  you, 

For  up  my  squadron  as  I  drew, 

To  exercise  our  martial  game 

Upon  the  moor  of  Barnmghame, 

A  stranger  told  you  were  waylaid, 

Surrounded,  and  to  death  betray' d. 

He  had  a  leader's  voice,  I  ween, 

A  falcon  glance,  a  warrior's  mien. 

He  bade  me  bring  you  instant  aid ; 

I  doubted  not,  and  1  obey'd." 

XXXI. 

Wilfrid  chang'd  colour,  and  amaz'd, 
Turn'd  short,  and  on  the  speaker  gaz'd ; 
While  Redmond  ev'ry  thicket  round 
Track'd  em  iiest  as  a  questing  hound, 
And  Denzil's  carabine  he  found  ; 
Sure  evidence,  by  which  they  knew 
The  wair.lng  was  as  kind  as  true. 
Wisest  it  seem'd,  with  cautious  speed 
To  leave  the  dell.     It  was  agreed, 
That  Redmond,  with  Matilda  fair, 
And  fitting  guard,  should  home  repair ; 
At  nightfall  Wilfrid  should  attend, 
With  a  strong  band,  his  sister-friend, 
To  bear  with  her  from  Rokeby's  bowers 
To  Barnard  Castle's  lofty  towers, 
Secret  anu  Aafe  the  banded  chests. 
In  which  the  wealth  of  Mortham  rests. 
This  hasty  purpose  tix'd,  they  part, 
Each  with  a  griev'd  and  anxious  heart. 


CANTO  FIFTH, 
i. 

THE  sultry  summer  day  is  done, 
The  western  hills  have  hid  the  sun, 
But  mountain  peak  and  village  spire, 
Retain  reflection  of  his  fire. 


CAJTTO  V.]  ROKEBT. 

Old  Barnard's  tow'rs  are  purple  still, 
To  those  that  gaze  from  Toller-hill  ; 
Distant  and  high,  the  tow'r  of  Bowes 
Like  steel  upon  the  anvil  glows  ; 
And  Stanmore's  ridge,  behind  that  lay, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  parting  day, 
In  crimson  and  in  gold  array'd, 
Streaks  yet  a  while  the  closing  shade, 
Then  slow  resigns  to  dark'ning  heaven 
The  tints  which  brighter  hours  had  given. 
Thus  aged  men,  full  loath  and  slow, 
The  vanities  of  life  forego, 
And  couut  their  youthful  follies  o'er, 
Till  Meui'ry  lends  her  light  no  more, 


The  eve,  that  slow  on  upland  fades, 
Has  darker  cloo'd  on  Rokeby's  glades, 
AVhere  sunk  within  their  banks  profound, 
Her  guardian  streams  to  meeting  wound. 
The  stately  oaks,  whose  sombre  frown. 
Of  noontide  made  a  twilight  brown, 
Impervious  now  to  fainter  light, 
Of  twilight  make  an  early  night. 
Hoarse  into  middle  air  arose 
The  vespers  of  the  roosting  crows, 
And  with  congenial  murmurs  seem 
To  wake  the  Genii  of  the  stream  ; 
Far  louder  clamoar'd  Greta's  tide, 
And  Tees  in  deeper  voice  replied, 
.A  r:d  titful  wak'd  the  evening  wind, 
Fitful  in  sighs  its  breath  resign'd. 
Wilfrid,  vhose  fancy-nurtur'd  soul 
Felt  in  tl  -  scene  a  soft  control, 
With  lighter  footstep  press'd  the  grouho 
And  often  paus'd  to  look  around ; 
And  though  his  path  was  to  his  love, 
Could  not  but  linger  in  the  grove, 
To  drink  the  thrillii:g  int'roat  dear, 
Of  awful  pleasure  check'd  by  fear. 
Such  inconsistent  moods  have  we, 
E'en  when  our  passions  strike  the  key. 


517 


518  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  V. 


Now,  through  the  wood's  dark  mazes  past, 
The  op'ning  lawn  he  reach' d  at  last, 
Where,  silver' d  by  the  moonlight  ray, 
The  ancient  Hall  before  him  lay. 
Those  martial  terrors  long  were  fled, 
That  frown'd  of  old  around  its  head  : 
The  battlements,  the  turrets  grey, 
Seem'd  half  abandon'd  to  decay  ; 
On  barbican  and  keep  of  stone 
Stern  Time  the  foeman's  work  had  done. 
Where  banners  the  invader  brav'd, 
The  harebell  now  and  wallflower  wav'd  : 
In  the  rude  guard-room,  where  of  yore 
Their  weary  hours  the  warders  wore, 
Now,  while  the  cheerful  fagots  blaze, 
On  the  pav'd  floor  the  spindle  plays ; 
The  flanking  guns  dismounted  lie, 
The  moat  is  ruinous  and  dry, 
The  grim  portcullis  gone — and  all 
The  fortress  turn'd  to  peaceful  Hall. 

IV. 

But  yet  precautions,  lately  ta'en, 

Show'd  danger's  day  reviv'd  again  ; 

The  court-yard  wall  show'd  marks  of  care, 

The  fall'n  defences  to  repair, 

Lending  such  strength  as  might  withstand 

The  insult  of  marauding  band. 

The  beams  once  more  were  taught  to  bear 

The  trembling  drawbridge  into  air, 

And  not,  till  question'd  o'er  and  o'er, 

For  Wilfrid  oped  the  jealous  door ; 

And  when  he  enter' d,  bolt  and  bar 

Resum'd  their  place  with  sullen  jar; 

Then,  as  he  cross'd  the  vaulted  porch, 

The  old  grey  porter  rais'd  his  torch, 

And  view'd  him  o'er,  from  foot  to  head, 

Ere  to  the  hall  his  steps  he  led. 

That  huge  old  hall,  of  knightly  state, 

Dismantled  seem'd  and  desolate. 

The  moon  through  transom-shafts  of  stone. 

Which  cross'd  the  lattic'd  oriels,  shone, 


CANTO  V.]  ROKEBT.  519 

And  by  the  mournful  light  sho  gave, 
The  Ciothic  vault  seem  d  funeral  cave. 
Pennon  and  banner  wav'd  no  mow 
O'er  beams  of  stag  and  tusks  of  boar, 
Nor  glimmering  arms  were  marshaU'd  seen^ 
To  glance  those  silvan  spoils  between. 
Those  arms,  those  ensigus,  borne  away, 
Accomplish  d  Rokeby's  brave  array, 
But  all  were  lost  on  Marston's  day  ! 
Yet  here  and  there  the  moonbeams  fall 
Where  armour  yet  adorns  the  wall, 
Cumbrous  of  size,  uncouth  to  sight, 
And  useless  iu  the  modern  fight ! 
Like  vet' rail  relic  of  the  wars, 
Known  only  by  neglected  scars. 

v. 

Matilda  soon  to  greet  him  came, 
And  bade  them  light  the  evening  flame  ; 
Said,  all  for  parting  was  prepar'd, 
And  tarried  but  for  Wilfrid's  guard. 
But  then,  reluctant  to  unfold 
His  father's  avarice  of  gold, 
He  hinted,  that  lest  jealous  eye 
Should  on  their  precious  burden  pry, 
He  judg  d  it  best  the  castle  gate 
To  enter  when  the  night  wore  late ; 
And  therefore  he  had  left  command 
With  those  he  trusted  of  his  band, 
That  they  should  be  at  Rokeby  met, 
What  time  the  midnight- watch  was  set. 
Now  Redmond  came,  whose  anxious  care 
Till  then  was  busied  to  prepare 
All  needful,  meetly  to  arrange 
The  mansion  for  its  mournful  change. 
\V  ith  Wilfrid's  care  and  kindness  pieas'd, 
His  cold  unready  hand  he  seiz'd, 
And  press' d  it,  till  his  kindly  ftrain. 
The  gentle  youth  return1  d  atrain. 
Seein'd  as  between  them  this  was  said, 
"A  while  let  jealousy  be  dead  ; 
And  let  our  contest  be,  v/iiose  care 
Shill  best  assist  this  helpiesi  fair." 


520  ROUEBY.  [CANTO  V. 

There  was  no  speech  the  truce  to  bind, 

It  was  a  compact  of  the  mind. 

A  gen'rous  thought,  at  once  impress'd 

On  either  rival's  gen'rous  breast. 

Matilda  well  the  secret  took, 

From  sudden  change  of  mien  and  look; 

And — for  not  small  had  been  her  fear 

Of  jealous  ire  and  danger  near — 

Felt,  ev'n  in  her  dejected  state, 

A  joy  beyond  the  reach  of  fate. 

They  clos'd  beside  the  chimney's  blaze, 

And  talk'd,  and  hop'd  for  happier  days, 

And  lent  their  spirits'  rising  glow 

A  while  to  gild  impending  woe; 

High  privilege  of  youthful  time, 

Worth  all  the  pleasures  of  our  prime  t 

The  bick'ring  fagot  sparkl'd  bright, 

And  gave  the  scene  of  love  to  sight, 

Bade  Wilfrid's  cheek  more  lively  glow, 

Play'd  on  Matilda's  neck  of  snow, 

Her  nut-brown  curls  and  forehead  high, 

And  laugh'd  in  Redmond's  azure  eye. 

Two  lovers  by  the  maiden  sate, 

Without  a  glance  of  jealous  hate ; 

The  maid  her  lovers  sat  between, 

With  open  brow  and  equal  mien; — 

It  is  a  sight  but  rarely  spied, 

Thanks  to  man's  wrath  and  woman's  pride. 

Tit. 

While  thus  in  peaceful  guise  they  sate, 
A  knock  alarm' d  the  outer  gate, 
And  ere  the  tardy  porter  stirr'd, 
The  tinkling  of  a  harp  was  heard. 
A  manly  voice  of  mellow  swell, 
Bore  burden  to  the  music  well. 

SONG. 

"  Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past, 
Summer  dew  is  failing  labt ;  , 

I  have  wander'd  all  the  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray  1 


CANTO  VJ  EOKEBT.  £2 1 

Gentle  hearts,  of  gentie  kin, 
Take  the  waiuTriiig  harper  in  !** 

But  the  stern  porter  answer  gave, 

With  "  Get  thee  hence,  thou  strolling  knave! 

The  king  wants  soldiers ;  war,  I  trow, 

Were  meeter  trade  for  such  as  thou." 

At  this  unkind  reproof,  again 

Answer' d  the  ready  Minstrel's  strain. 

SONG — resumed. 

"  Bid  not  me,  in  battle-field, 
Buckler  lift,  or  broadsword  wield ! 
All  my  strength  and  all  my  art 
Is  to  touch  the  gentle  heart, 
With  the  wizard  notes  thut  ring 
From  the  peaceful  minstrel-string." — 

The  porter,  all  unmov'd,  replied, — 
Depart  in  peace,  with  Heav'n  to  guide  ; 
If  longer  by  the  gate  thou  dwell, 
Trust  me,  thou  bbait  not  part  so  welL" 


With  somewhat  of  appealing  look, 
The  harper's  part  young  Wilfrid  took  : 
"  These  notes  so  wild  and  ready  thrill, 
They  show  no  vulgar  iniust  el's  skill ; 
Hard  were  his  task  to  seek  a  home 
More  distant,  since  the  night  is  come; 
And  for  his  faith  I  (hire  engage — 
Your  Harpool  s  blood  i>  sour  d  by  age; 
His  gate,  once  readily  dispiay'd, 
To  greet  the  friend,  the  poor  to  aid, 
Now  e'en  to  me,  though  known  of  old, 
Did  but  reluctantly  unfold." — 
"  O  blame  not,  as  poor  Harpool's  crime, 
An  evil  of  this  evil  time. 
He  deems  dependent  on  his  care, 
The  safety  ol  his  patron's  heir, 
Nor  judges  meet  to  ope  t'ue  tow'r 
To  guest  unknown  at  parting  hour, 


522  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  V. 

Urging  his  duty  to  excess 

Of  rough  and  stubborn  faithfulness. 

For  this  poor  harper,  I  would  fain 

He  may  relax  :  —  Hark  to  his  strain  !**—  - 

IX. 

SONG  —  resumed. 

"  I  have  song  of  war  for  knight, 
Lay  of  love  tor  lady  bright, 
Fairy  tale  to  lull  the  heir, 
Goblin  grim  the  maids  to  scare. 
Dark  the  night,  and  long  till  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray  ! 

"  Rokeby's  lords  of  martial  fame, 
I  can  count  them  name  by  name; 
Legends  of  their  line  there  be, 
Known  to  few,  but  known  to  me  ; 
If  vou  honour  Rokeby's  kin, 
Take  the  wand'ring  harper  in  ! 

"  Rokeby's  lords  had  fair  regard 
For  the  harp,  and  for  the  bard  ; 
Baron's  race  throve  never  well, 
Where  the  curse  of  minstrel  fell. 
If  you  love  that  noble  kin, 
Take  the  weary  harper  in  !"  — 


"Hark  !  Harpool  parleys  —  there  is 
Said  Redmond,  "  that  the  gate  will  ope." 
—  "  For  all  thy  brag  and  boa?t,  I  trow, 
Nought  know'st  thou  of  the  Felon  Sow," 
Quoth  Harpool,  "  nor  how  Greta-side 
She  roam'd,  and  Rokeby  forest  wide  ; 
Nor  how  Ralph  Rokeby  gave  the  beast 
To  Richmond's  friars  to  make  a,  feast. 
Of  Gilbert  Griffinson  the  tale 
Goes,  and  of  gallant  Peter  Dale, 
That  well  could  strike  with  sword  amain, 
And  of  the  valiant  son  of  Spain, 
Friar  Middleton,  and  blithe  Sir  Ralrh; 
There  were  a  jest  to  make  us  laugh  ! 
If  thou  canst  tell  it  in  yon  shade 
Thou'st  won  thy  supper  and  thy  bed." 


523 


CANTO  V.]  BOKEBY. 


Matilda  smil'd;  "Cold  hope,"  said  she, 
"  From  Harpool's  love  of  minstrelsy ! 
But,  for  this  harper,  may  we  dare, 
Redmond,  to  mend  his  couch  and  fare  ?" 
— "  O,  ask  not  me ! — At  minstrel-string 
My  heart  from  infancy  would  spring ; 
Nor  can  I  hear  its  simplest  strain, 
But  it  brings  Erin's  dream  again, 
\Vhen  plac'd  by  Owen  Lysagh's  knee, 
(The  Filea  of  O'Neale  was  he,* 
A  blind  and  bearded  man,  whose  eld 
Was  sacred  as  a  prophet's  held,) 
I've  seen  a  ring  of  nigged  kerne, 
With  aspect  shaggy,  wild  aud  stern, 
Enchanted  by  the  master  s  lay, 
Linger  around  the  livelong  day, 
Shift  from  wild  rage  to  wilder  glee, 
To  love,  to  grief,  to  ecstasy, 
And  feel  each  varied  change  of  soul 
Obedient  to  the  bard's  control. — 
Ah,  Clandeboy  !  thy  friendly  floor 
BLeve-Donard's  c^k  shall  light  no  more  ;- 
Nor  Owen's  harp,  beside  the  blaze, 
Tell  maiden's  love,  or  hero's  praise  ! 
The  mantling  brambles  hide  thy  hearth, 
Centre  of  hospitable  mirth ; 
All  undistinguish'd  in  the  glade, 
My  sires'  glad  home  is  prostrate  laid, 
Their  vassals  wander  wide  and  far, 
Serve  foreign  lords  in  distant  war, 
And  now  the  stranger's  sons  enjoy 
The  lovely  woods  of  Clandeboy  f 
He  spoke,  and  proudly  turn'd  aside. 
The  starting  tear  to  dry  and  hide. 


*  The  Filea,  nr  Ollnmh  R«  Dan,  wai  the  proper  bard,  or,  ai  th» 
name  literally  implies,  po-t.  Each  chii  ftain  of  distiuction  had  on9 
or  more  in  his  service,  whose  office  was  usually  hereditary. 

•»  Clanriebuy  is  a  district  of  'Jl-tcr,  formerly  possessed  by  th» 
lept  of  the  O'Xe*les,  and  Sliev&'Donard,  a  romantic  mountain  iu 
the  same  province.  The  elm  was  riiineJ  after  Tyrone's  jjreal  r» 
leiiiou,  and  U.eir  places  of  abaci,!  laid  desolate. 


524 


[CANTO  V. 


Matilda's  dark  and  soften 'd  eye 

Was  glist'niug  ere  O'Neale's  was  dry. 

Her  hand  upon  his  arm  she  laid, — • 

"  It  is  the  will  of  heav'n,"  she  said. 

"  And  think' st  thou,  Redmond,  I  can  part 

From  this  l.ov'd  home  with  lightsome  heart, 

Leaving  to  wild  neglect  whate'er 

Ev'n  from  my  infancy  was  dear? 

For  in  this  ?alm  domestic  hound 

Were  all  Matilda's  pleasures  found. 

That  hearth,  my  sire  was  wont  to  grace, 

Full  soon  may  be  a  stranger's  place ; 

This  hall,  in  which  a  child  I  play'd, 

Like  thine,  dear  Redmond,  lowly  laid, 

The  hramble  and  the  thorn  may  braid ; 

Or,  pass'd  for  aye  from  me  and  mine, 

It  ne'er  may  shelter  Rokeby's  line. 

Yet  is  this  consolation  giv'n, 

My  Redmond, — 'tis  the  will  of  heav'n." 

Her  ^ord,  her  action,  and  her  phrase 

Were  kindly  as  in  early  days ; 

For  cold  reserve  had  lost  its  pow'r, 

In  sorrow's  sympathetic  hour. 

Young  Redmond  dar'd  not  trust  his  Toice 

But  rather  had  it  been  his  choice 

To  share  that  melancholy  hour, 

Than,  arm'd  with  all  a  chieftain's  pow'r, 

In  full  possession  to  enjoy 

Slieve-Donard  wide,  and  Clandehoy. 


The  blood  left  Wilfrid's  ashen  cheek  ; 
Matilda  sees,  and  hastes  to  speak. — 
"  Happy  in  friendship's  ready  aid. 
Let  all  my  murmurs  here  be  staid ! 
And  Rokeby's  Maiden  will  not  part 
From  Rokeby's  hall  with  moody  heart. 
This  night  at  least,  for  Rokeby's  fame, 
The  hospitable  hearth  shall  flame, 
And,  ere  its  native  heir  retire, 
Find  for  the  wand'rer  rest  and  fire, 


CANTO  V.]  BOKEDT.  525 

While  this  poor  harper,  by  the  Ware, 

Recounts  the  tale  of  other  days, 

Bid  Harpool  ope  the  door  with  speed, 

Admit  him,  and  relieve  each  need. — 

Meantime,  kind  Wycliffe,  wilt  thou  try 

Thy  minstrel  skill? — Nay,  no  reply — 

And  look  not  sad  ! — I  guess  thy  thought, 

Thy  verse  with  laurels  would  be  bought; 

And  poor  Matilda,  landless  now, 

Has  not  a  garland  for  thy  brow. 

True,  I  must  leave  sweet  Rokeby's  glades, 

Nor  wander  more  in  Greta  shades  ; 

But  sure,  no  rigid  jailer,  thou 

Wilt  a  short  prison- walk  allow, 

Where  sumn.er  flow'rs  grow  wild  at  will, 

On  Marwood-chase  and  Toller  Hill ; 

Then  holly  green  and  lily  gay 

Shall  twine  in  guerdon  of  thy  lay." 

The  mournful  youth,  a  space  aside, 

To  tune  Matilda's  harp  applied ; 

And  then  a  low  sad  descant  rung, 

As  prelude  to  the  lay  he  sung. 


SONG. 

TH«  CYPRESS  WHKATK. 
O,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 
Too  lively  glow  the  lilies  light, 
The  varnish'd  holly's  all  too  bright, 
The  May-flow'r  and  the  eglantine 
May  shade  a  brow  less  sad  than  mine  ; 
But,  Lady,  weave  no  wreath  for  ine, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree ! 

Let  dimpl'd  Mirth  his  temples  twine 
With  tendrils  of  the  laughing  vine; 
The  manly  oak,  the  pensive  yew, 
To  patriot  and  to  sage  be  due  ; 
The  myrtle  bough  bids  lovers  live, 
But  that  Matilda  will  not  give  ; 
Then,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  lor  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree  ! 


526  BOIJEBY.  [CANTO  V. 

Let  merry  England  proudlr  rear 
Her  blended  roses,  bought  "so  dear; 
Let  Albin  bind  her  bonnet  blua 
With  heath  and  harebell  dipp'd  in  dew; 
On  favour' d  Erin's  crest  be  seen 
The  flow'r  she  loves  of  em'rald  green — 
But,  Lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

Strike  the  wild  harp,  while  maids  prepare 
The  ivy  meet  for  minstrel's  hair ; 
And,  while  his  crown  of  laurel-leaves 
With  bloody  hand  the  victor  weaves, 
Let  the  loud  trump  his  triumph  tell ; 
But  when  you  hear  the  passing  bell, 
Then,  Lady,  twine  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  twine  it  of  the  cypress-tree. 

Yes  !  twine  tor  me  the  cypress  bough ; 
But,  O  Matilda,  twine  not  now  ! 
Stay  till  a  few  brief  months  are  past, 
And  I  have  look'd  and  lov'd  my  last! 
When  villagers  my  shroud  bestrew 
With  panzies,  rosemary,  and  rue, — 
Then,  Lady,  weave  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  weave  it  of  the  cypress- tree. 

XIV. 

O'Neale  observ'd  the  starting  tear, 
And  spoke  with  kind  and  blithesome  cheer— 
"  No,  noble  Wilfrid  !  ere  the  day 
When  mourns  the  land  thy  silent  lay 
Shall  many  a  wreath  be  freely  wove  * 
By  hand  of  friendship  and  of  love. 
I  would  not  wish  that  rigid  Pate 
Had  doom'd  thee  to  a  captive  s  state, 
Whose  hands  are  bound  by  honour's  law, 
Who  wears  a  sword  he  must  not  draw ; 
But  were  it  so,  in  minstrel  pride 
The  land  together  would  we  ride, 
On  prancing  Steeds,  like  harpers  old. 
Bound  for  the  halls  of  barons  bold, 
Each  lover  of  the  lyre  we'd  seok, 
From  Michael's  Mount  to  Skiddaw's  Peak, 


CANTO  V.I  ROKEBT.  527 

Survey  wild  Albin's  mountain  strand, 
And  roam  green  Erin's  lovely  land. 
While  thou  the  gentler  souls  yhoultl  move, 
With  lay  of  pity  auii  ot  love, 
And  I,  thy  mate,  in  rougher  straiu. 
Would  sing  of  war  and  warriors  slain. 
Old  England's  bards  were  vanquished  then, 
And  Scotland's  vaunted  Hawthornden, 
And,  silenc'd  on  lernian  shore, 
M'Curtin's  harp  should  charm  no  more  !"* 
In  lively  mood  he  spoke,  to  wile 
From  Wilfrid's  woe-worn  cheek  a  smile. 


"  But,"  said  Matilda,  "  ere  thy  name, 

Good  Redmond,  gain  its  destin'd  fame, 

Say,  wilt  thou  kindly  deign  to  call 

Thy  brother-minstrel  to  the  hall  ? 

Bid  all  the  household,  too,  attend, 

Each  in  his  rank  a  humble  friend ; 

I  know  their  faithful  hearts  will  grieve, 

When  their  poor  Mistress  takes  her  leave; 

So  let  the  horn  and  beaker  flow 

To  mitigate  their  parting  woe." 

The  harper  came ; — in  youth's  first  prime 

Himself ;  in  mode  of  olden  time 

His  garb  was  fashion'd,  to  express 

The  ancient  English  minstrel's  dress, 

A  seemly  gown  of  Kendal  green, 

With  gorget  clos'd  of  silver  sheen ; 

His  harp  in  silken  scarf  was  slung, 

And  by  his  side  an  anlace  hung. 

It  seem'd  some  masquer's  quaint  array, 

For  revel  or  for  holiday. 

XVI. 

He  made  obeisance  with  a  free 

Yet  studied  air  of  courtesy. 

Each  look  and  .-u-.-ent,  tram'd  to  please, 

Seem'd  to  affect  a  playful  ease  ; 

»  Vacfurtln,  hereditary  Ollanih  of  North  Minister,  and  Wfl* 
to  Oouough,  Karl  01  Tliomnuil  *aJ  President  of  Minister. 


528 


ROKEBT. 


His  face  was  of  that  doubtful  kind, 
That  wins  the  eye,  but  not  the  mind; 
Yet  harsh  it  seem'd  to  deem  amiss 
Of  brow  so  young  and  smooth  as  this. 
His  was  the  subtle  look  and  sly, 
That,  spying  all,  seems  nought  to  spy : 
Round  all  the  group  his  glances  stole,' 
Unmark'd  themselves,  to  mark  the  whole. 
Yet  sunk  beneath  Matilda's  look, 
Nor  could  the  eye  of  Redmond  brook. 
To  the  suspicious,  or  the  old, 
Subtle  and  dangerous  and  bold 
Had  seem'd  this  self-icvited  guest; 
But  young  our  lovers,— and 'the  rest, 
Wrapt  in  their  sorrow  and  their  fear 
At  parting  of  their  Mistress  dear, 
Tear-blinded  to  the  Castle-hall, 
Came  as  to  bear  her  funeral  pall. 


All  that  expression  base  was  gone, 

When  wak'd  the  guest  his  r,.iastrel  tone ; 

It  fled  at  inspiration's  call. 

As  erst  the  demon  fled  from  Saul. 

More  noble  glance  he  cast  around. 

More  free-drawn  breath  insprr'd  the  sound, 

His  pulse  beat  bolder  and  more  high, 

In  all  the  pride  of  minstrelsy  ! 

Alas  !  too  soon  that  pride  was  o'er, 

Sunk  with  the  lay  that  bade  it  soar ! 

His  soul  resurn'd,  with  habit's  chain, 

Its  vices  wild  and  follies  vain, 

And  gave  the  talent,  with  him  boni, 

To  be  a  common  curse  and  scorn. 

Such  was  the  youth  whom  Rokeby's  Maid, 

With  condescending  kindness,  pray'd 

Here  to  renew  the  strain  she  lov'd, 

At  distance  heard  and  weii  approv'd. 


CA.VTO  V.}  ROKF.BY.  529 

xvin. 

SONG* 
THE  HIBF. 

I  was  a  wild  and  wayward  boy, 

My  childhood  scorn'cl  each  childish  toy; 

Retir  d  from  all,  reserv'd  and  coys 

To  musing  prone, 
I  woo'd  my  solitary  joy, 

My  harp  alone. 

My  youth,  with  bold  Ambition's  mood, 
Despis'd  the  humble  stream  and  wood, 
Where  my  poor  father's  cottage  stood, 

To  fame  unknown ; — 
What  should  my  soaring  views  make  good? 

My  harp  alone ! 

Love  came  with  all  his  frantic  fire, 
And  wild  romance  of  vain  desire  : 
The  baron's  daughter  heard  my  lyre, 

And  prais' d  the  tone; — 
What  could  presumptuous  hope  inspire? 

My  harp  alone ! 

At  manhood's  touch  the  bubble  burst, 
And  manhood's  pride  the  vision  curst, 
And  all  that  had  my  folly  nurs'd 

Love's  sway  to  own  ; 
Yet  spar'd  the  spell  that  lull'd  me  first, 

My  harp  alone ! 

Woe  came  with  war,  and  want  with  woe ; 
And  it  was  mine  to  undergo 
Each  outrage  of  the  rebel  foe  : — • 

Can  aught  atone 
My  fields  laid  waste,  my  cot  laid  low  ? 

My  harp  aloue  ! 

Ambition's  dreams  I've  seen  depart, 
Have  rued  of  penury  the  smart, 
Have  felt  of  love  the  venom'd  dart, 

When  hope  was  ttowu ; 
Yet  rests  one  solace  to  my  heart, — 

My  harp  alone ! 


530  ROK.EBT.  [CANTO  V. 

Then  over  mountain,  moor,  and  hill, 
My  faithful  Harp,  I'll  bear  thee  still,  • 
And  when  this  life  of  want  auii  111 

Is  well  nigh  gone, 
Thy  strings  mine  elegy  shall  tlml], 

My  Harp  alone ! 

XIX. 

"  A  pleasing  lay !"  Matilda  said ; 
But  Harpool  shook  his  old  grey  head, 
And  took  his  baton  and  his  torch, 
To  seek  his  guard-room  in  the  porch. 
Edmund  observed — with  sudden  change, 
Among  the  strings  his  fingers  range, 
Until  they  wak'd  a  bolder  glee 
Of  military  melody ; 
Then  paus'd  amid  the  martial  sound, 
And  look'd  with  well-feign'd  fear  around ; 
"  None  to  this  noble  house  belong," 
He  said,  "  that  would  a  Minstrel  wrong, 
Whose  fate  has  been,  through  good  and  ill, 
To  love  his  Royal  Master  still ; 
And,  with  your  honour'd  leave,  would  fain 
Rejoice  you  with  a  loyal  strain." 
Then,  as  assured  by  sign  and  look, 
The  warlike  tone  again  he  took  ; 
And  Harpool  stopp'd,  and  turn'd  to  hear 
A  ditty  of  the  Cavalier. 

xx. 

SONG. 

THE  CAVALIER. 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  grey, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away, 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o  er  down; 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for  the 

Crown! 

He  has  doiTd  the  silk  doublet  the  breast-plate  to  bear, 
He  has  placed  the  steel-cap  o'er  his  long  flowing  hair, 
From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword  hangs 

down, — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  Gallant  that  fights  for  the 

Crown! 


CANTO  V.] 


531 


For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword  he  draws, 
Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his  cause ; 
His  'watchword  is  honour,  his  pay  is  renown, — 
GOD  strike  with  the  Gallant  that  strikes  for  the  Crown. 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller,  and  all 
The  round  headed  rebels  of  Westminster  Hall ; 
But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud  town, 
That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encircled  the  Crown. 

There's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  diead  of  their  foes, 
There's  Erin's  high  Ormond,  and  Scotland  s  Montrose ! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massey,  and 

Brown, 
With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight  for  the  Crown ! 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  Cavalier ! 
Be  his  banner  unconquer'd,  resistless  his  spear, 
Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may  drown, 
In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church,  and  her  Crown, 

XXI. 

"  Alas  I"  Matilda  said,  "  that  strain, 
Good  harper,  now  is  heard  in  vain  ! 
The  time  has  been,  at  such  a  sound, 
When  Rokeby's  vassals  gather'd  round, 
An  hundred  manly  hearts  would  bound  ; 
But  now,  the  stirring  verse  we  hear, 
Like  trump  in  dying  soldier's  ear ! 
Listless  and  sad  the  notes  we  own, 
The  pow'r  to  answer  them  is  flown. 
Yet  not  without  his  meet  applause 
Be  he  that  sings  the  rightful  cause, 
Ev'n  when  the  crisis  of  its  fate 
To  human  eye  seems  desperate. 
While  Rokeby's  Heir  such  pow'r  retains, 
Let  this  slight  guerdon  pay  thy  pains  : — 
And,  lend  thy  harp ;  I  fain  would  try, 
If  my  poor  skill  can  aught  supply, 
Ere  yet  I  leave  my  fathers'  hall, 
To  mourn  the  cause  in  which  we  fall" 

XXII. 

The  harper,  with  a  downcast  look, 
And  trembling  hand,  her  bounty  took. — 


532 


CCANTO  V 


As  yet,  the  conscious  pride  of  art 
Had  steel'd  him  in  his  treach'rous  part  ; 
A  pow'rful  spring,  of  force  unguess'd. 
That  hath  each  gentler  mood  suppress'd, 
And  reign'd  in  many  a  human  breast-, 
From  his  that  plans  the  red  campaign, 
To  his  that  wastes  the  woodland  reign. 
The  failing  wing,  the  blood-shot  eye, — 
The  sportsman  marks  with  apathy, 
Each  feeling  of  his  victim's  ill 
Drown'd  in  his  own  successful  skill. 
The  vet'ran,  too,  who  now  no  more 
Aspires  to  head  the  battle  s  roar, 
Loves  still  the  triumph  of  his  art, 
And  traces  on  the  pencill'd  chart 
Some  stern  invader's  destin'd  way, 
Through  blood  and  ruin  to  his  prey; 
Patriots  to  death,  and  towns  to  flame 
He  dooms,  to  raise  another's  name, 
And  shares  the  guilt,  though  not  the  fame. 
What  pays  him  for  his  span  of  time 
Spent  in  premeditated  crime  ? 
What  against  pity  arms  his  heart?— 
It  is  the  conscious  pride  of  art. 

XXIII. 

But  principles  in  Edmund's  mind 
Were  baseless,  vague,  and  undefin'd. 
His  soul,  like  bark  with  rudder  lost, 
On  Passion's  changeful  tide  was  tost ; 
Nor  Vice  nor  Virtue  had  the  pow'r 
Beyond  th'  impression  of  the  hour  ; 
And,  O  !  when  Passion  rules,  how  rare 
The  hours  that  fall  to  Virtue's  share  ! 
Yet  now  she  rous'd  her — for  the  pride, 
That  lack  of  sterner  guilt  supplied, 
Could  scarce  support  him  when  arose 
The  by  that  mourn'd  Matilda's  woes. 


THS  FAKKWKI.L. 

The  sound  of  Rokeby's  woods  I  bear, 
They  mingle  with  the  socg : 


CANTO  V.J  ROKKBY. 

Dark  Greta's  voice  is  in  mine  car, 

I  must  not  hear  them  long. 
From  ev'ry  lov'J  and  native  haunt 

The  native  Heir  must  stray, 
And,  like  a  ghost  whom  sunbeams  daunt, 

Must  part  before  the  day. 

Soon  from  the  halls  my  fathers  rear'd, 

Their  scutcheons  may  descend. 
A  line  so  long  belov'd  ana  fear'd 

May  soon  obscurely  end. 
No  longer  here  Matilda  s  tone 

Shall  bid  these  echoes  swell ; 
Yet  shall  thev  hear  her  proudly  own. 

The  cause  in  which  we  fell. 

The  Lady  paus'd,  and  then  again 
Resuui'd  the  lay  in  loftier  strain. 

XXVI. 

Let  our  halls  and  tow'rs  decay, 

Be  cur  name  and  line  forgot, 
Lands  and  manors  pafs  away, — • 

We  but  share  our  Monarch's  lot. 
If  no  more  our  annals  show 

Battles  won  and  banners  taken, 
Still  in  death,  defeat,  and  woe, 

Ours  be  loyalty  unshaken  ! 

Constant  still  in  danger's  hour, 

Princes  own'd  our  lathers'  aid ; 
Lands  and  honours,  wealth  and  pow"r, 

Well  their  loyalty  repaid. 
Perish  wealth,  and  pow'r,  and  pride ! 

Mortal  boons  by  mortals  given  • 
But  let  Constancy  abide, — 

Constancy's  the  gift  of  Heaven. 

XXV. 

While  thus  Matilda's  lay  was  heard, 
A  thousand  thoughts  in  Edmund  stirr'd. 
In  peasant  life  he  might  have  known 
As  fair  a  face,  as  sweet  a  tone ; 
But  village  notes  could  ne'er  supply 
That  rich  and  varied  melody; 


533 


534  BOKEBT. 

And  ne'er  in  cottasre-maid  was  seea 
The  easy  dignity  oi'  mien, 
Claiming  respect,  yet  waving  state, 
That  marks  the  daughters  of  the  groat, 
Yet  not,  perchance,  had  these  alone 
His  scheme  of  purpos'd  guilt  o'erthrown. 
But  while  her  energy  of  mind 
Superior  rose  to  griefs  combin'd, 
Lending  its  kindling  to  her  eye, 
Giving  her  form  new  majesty, — 
To  Edmund's  thought  Matilda  seem'd 
The  very  object  he  had  dream'd ; 
When,  long  ere  guilt  his  soul  had  known, 
In  Winston  bow'rs  he  mus'd  alone, 
Taxing  his  fancy  to  combine 
The  face,  the  air,  the  voice  divine, 
Of  princess  fair,  by  cruel  fate 
Reft  of  her  honours,  pow'r,  and  state, 
Till  to  her  rightful  realm  restor'd 
By  destin'd  hero's  con^u'ring  sword. 


"  Such  -was  my  vision  !"  Edmund  thought ; 

"  And  have  I,  then,  the  ruin  wrought 

Of  such  a  maid,  that  fancy  ne'er 

In  fairest  vision  form'd  her  peer? 

Was  it  my  hand  that  could  unclose 

The  postern  to  her  ruthless  foes  ? 

Foes,  lost  to  honour,  law,  and  faith. 

Their  kindest  mercy  suddeu  death  ! 

Have  I  done  this  ?  I  !  who  have  swore, 

That  if  the  globe  such  angel  bore, 

I  would  have  trae'd  its  circle  broad, 

To  kiss  the  ground  on  which  she  trode ! — 

And  now — O  !  would  that  earth  would  rive. 

And  close  upon  me  while  alive  ! — 

Is  there  no  hope  ?  Is  all  then  lost  ? — 

Bertram's  already  on  his  post ! 

Kv'n  now,  beside  the  Hall's  arch'd  door, 

I  saw  his  shadow  cross  the  floor ! 

He  was  to  wait  my  signal  strain 

A  little  respite  thus  we  gain : 


[CANTO  V. 


CAKTO  V.]  EOKEBT.  535 

By  -what  I  heard  the  menials  say, 

Young  Wycliffe's  troop  are  on  their  wav— . 

Alarm  precipitates  the  crime  ! 

My  harp  must  wear  away  the  time." — 

And  then,  in  accents  faint  and  low, 

He  falter'd  forth  a  tale  of  woe. 

XXVII. 
BALLAD. 

"  And  whither  would  you  lead  me,  then  ?" 

Quoth  the  Friar  of  orders  grey ; 
And  the  Ruffians  twain  replied  again, 

"  By  a  dying  woman  to  pray." — 

"  I  see,"  he  sa'd,  "  a  lovely  sight, 

A  sight  bodi  •  little  harm, 
A  lady  as  a  lily  hright, 

With  an  infant  on  her  arm." — 

"  Then  do  thine  office,  Friar  grey, 

And  see  thou  shrive  her  free  ! 
Else  shall  the  sprite,  that  parts  to-night, 

Fling  all  its  guilt  on  thee. 

"  Let  mass  be  said,  and  trentals  read, 

When  thou'rt  to  convent  gone, 
And  bid  the  bell  of  St  Benedict 

Toll  out  its  deepest  tone." 

The  shrift  is  done,  the  Friar  is  gone, 

Blindfolded  as  he  came — 
Next  morning,  all  in  Littlecot  Hall 

Were  weeping  for  their  dame. 

Wild  Darrell  is  an  alter'd  man, 

The  village  crones  can  tell ; 
He  looks  pale  as  clay,  and  strives  to  pray, 

If  he  hears  the  convent  bell. 

If  prince  or  peer  cross  Darrell's  way, 

He'll  beard  him  in  his  pride — 
If  he  meet  a  Friar  of  orders  grey, 

He  droops  and  turns  aside. 

XXVIII. 

"  Harper  !  methinks  thy  magic  lays," 
Matilda  said,  "  can  goblins  raise  ! 


536  ROKEBT,  [CANTO  T. 

Well  nigh  my  fancy  can  discern, 

Near  the  dark  porch,  a  visage  stern  ; 

E'en  now,  in  yonder  shadowy  nook, 

j  See  it  i — Redmond,  Wilfrid,  look  ! — 

A  human  form  distinct  and  clear — 

God,  for  thy  mercy  ! — It  draws  near  P' 

She  saw  too  true.     Stride  after  stride, 

The  centre  of  that  chamber  wide 

Fierce  Bertram  gain'd  ;  then  made  a  stand, 

And,  proudly  waving  with  his  hand, 

Thunder'd — "  Be  still,  upon  your  lives  ! — 

He  bleeds  who  speaks,  he  dies  who  strives." 

Behind  their  chief,  the  robber  crew 

Forth  from  the  darken' d  portal  drew, 

In  silence — save  that  echo  dread 

Return'd  their  heavy  measur'd  tread. 

The  lamp's  uncertain  lustre  gave 

Their  arms  to  gleam,  their  plumes  to  wave  ; 

File  after  file  in  order  pass, 

Like  forms  on  Banquo  s  mystic  glass. 

Then,  halting  at  their  leader's  sign. 

At  once  they  form'd  and  curv'd  their  line, 

Hemming  within  its  crescent  drear 

Their  victims,  like  a  herd  of  deer. 

Another  sign,  and  to  the  aim 

Levell'd  at  once  their  muskets  came, 

As  waiting  but  their  chieftain's  word, 

To  make  their  fatal  volley  heard. 


Back  in  a  heap  the  menials  drew ; 
Yet,  ev'n  in  mortal  terror,  true, 
Their  pale  and  startled  group  oppose 
Between  Matilda  and  the  foes. 
"  O,  haste  thee,  Wilfrid  !"  Redmond  cried ; 
"  Undo  that  wicket  by  thy  side ! 
Bear  hence  Matilda-  -gain  the  wood — 
The  pass  may  be  a  while  made  good — 
Thy  bj,nd,  ere  this,  must  sure  be  nigh— 
O  speak  not — dally  not — but  fty  !" 
While  yet  the  crowd  their  motions  hide, 
Through  the  low  wicket  door  they  glide. 


CAWTO  V.}  ROKEBY.  537 

Through  vaulted  passages  they  wind^ 
In  Gothic  intricacy  twin'd ; 
.  Wilfrid  half  led,  and  half  he  bore, 
Matilda  to  the  postern-door, 
And  safe  beneath  the  forest  tree, 
The  Lady  stands  at  liberty. 
The  moonbeams,  the  fresh  gale's  caress, 
Renew 'd  suspended  consciousness  ; — 
"  Where's  Redmond  ?  *  eagerly  she  cries : 
Thou  answer'st  not — he  dies  !  he  dieaj 
And  thou  hast  left  him,  all  bereft 
Of  mortal  aid — with  murd'rers  left  ! 
I  know  it  well — he  would  not  yield 
His  sword  to  man — his  doom  is  seal'd  ! 
For  my  scorn'd  life,  which  thou  hast  bought 
At  price  of  his,  I  thank  thee  not." 

XXX. 

Th'  unjust  reproach,  the  angry  look, 

The  heart  of  Wilfrid  could  not  brook, 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  my  band  so  near, 

In  safety  thou  mayst  rest  thee  here. 

For  Redmond's  death  thou  shalt  not  mourn. 

If  mine  can  buy  his  safe  return." 

He  tuvn'd  away — his  heart  throbb'd  high, 

The  tear  was  bursting  from  his  eye  ; 

The  sense  of  her  injustice  press'd 

Upon  the  Maid's  distracted  breast, — • 

"  S<-PV,  Wilfrid,  stay  !  all  aid  is  vain  !" 

He  heard,  but  tum'd  him  not  again  \ 

He  reaches  now  the  postern-door. 

Now  enters — and  is  seen  no  more. 

XXXI. 

With  all  the  agony  that  e'er 
Was  gender'd  twixt  suspense  and  fear, 
She  watch'd  the  line  of  windows  tail. 
Whose  Gothic  lattice  lights  the  Hall, 
Distinguished  by  the  paly  red 
Tin-  lamps  in  dim  reflection  shed, 
While  ail  beside  in  wan  moonlight 
Each  gr«vtt)d  casement  glimmer'd  whiter 
Z'4 


538  ROKETtT.  [CANTO  V. 

No  sight  of  Tiarm,  no  sound  of  ill, 
It  is  a  deep  and  midnight  stiii. 
Who  look'd  upon  the  scene,  had  gness'd 
All  in  the  Castle  -were  at  rest : 
When  sudden  on  the  windows  shone 
A  light'ning  Hash,  just  seen  and  gone  ! 
A  shot  is  heard— Again  the  flame 
Flash'd  thick  and  fast — a  voile}'  came  ; 
Then  echo'd  wildly,  from  within, 
Of  shout  and  scream  the  mingled  din, 
And  weapon-clash  and  madd'ning  cry, 
Of  those  who  kill,  and  those  who  die  ! — 
As  fill'd  the  Hall  with  sulph'rous  smoke, 
More  red,  more  dark,  the  death-flash  broke , 
And  forms  were  on  ihe  lattice  cast, 
That  struck  or  struggled,  as  they  past. 


What  sounds  upon  the  midnight  wind 
Approach  so  rapidly  behind  ? 
It  is,  it  is  the  tramp  of  steeds, 
Matilda  hears  the  sound,  she  speeds, 
Seizes  upon  the  leader's  rein — 
"  0,  haste  to  aid,  ere  aid  be  vain  ! 
Fly  to  the  postern — gain  the  Hall !" 
From  saddle  spring  the  troopers  all ; 
Their  gallant  steeds,  at  liberty, 
Run  wild  along  the  moonlight  lea. 
But,  ere  they  burst  upon  the  scene. 
Full  stubborn  had  the  conflict  been. 
When  Bertram  mark'd  Matilda's  flight, 
It  gave  the  signal  for  the  fight ; 
And  Rokeby's  vet'rans,  seam'd  with  scars 
Of  Scotland  s  and  of  Erin  s  wars, 
Their  momentary  panic  o'er, 
Stood  to  the  arms  which  then  they  bore 
(For  they  were  weapon'd,  and  prepar'd 
Their  Mistress  on  her  way  to  guard.) 
Then  cheer'd  them  to  the  fight  O'Neale, 
Then  peal'd  the  shot,  and  clash'd  the  steel ; 
The  war-smoke  soon  with  sal-ie  breath 
Darken  d  the  scene  of  blood  and  death, 


CANTO  V.]  HOKEBT.  539 

While  on  the  few  defenders  close 
The  Bandits,  with  redoubled  blows. 
And  twice  driv'n  back,  yet  fierce  and  fell, 
Renew  the  charge  with  fruntic  yell. 


Wilfrid  has  fall'n — but  o'er  him  stood 

Young  Redmond,  soil'd  with  smoke  and  blood, 

Cheering  his  mates  with  heart  and  hand 

Still  to  make  good  their  desp'rate  stand. 

"  Up,  comrades,  up  !  In  Rokeby  halls 

Ne'er  be  it  said  our  courage  falls. 

What !  faint  ye  for  their  savage  cry, 

Or  do  the  smoke- wreaths  daunt  your  eye  ? 

These  rafters  have  return'd  a  shout 

As  loud  at  Rokeby 's  wassail  rout, 

As  thick  a  smoke  these  hearths  have  givea 

At  Hallow-tide  or  Christmas-even.* 

Stand  to  it  yet !  renew  the  fight, 

For  Rokeby's  and  Matilda's  right ! 

These  slaves  !  they  dare  not,  hand  to  hand, 

Bide  buffet  from  a  true  man's  brand." 

Impetuous,  active,  fierce,  and  young, 

Upon  th'  advancing  foes  he  sprung. 

W  oe  to  the  wretch  at  whom  is  bent 

His  brandish'd  falchion's  sheer  descent ! 

Backward  they  scatter'd  as  he  came, 

Like  wolves  before  the  levin  flame, 

When,  mid  their  howling  conclave  driven, 

Hath  glanc'd  the  thunderbolt  of  heaven. 

Bertram  rush'd  on — but  Harpool  clasp'd, 

His  knees,  although  in  death  he  gasp  d, 

His  falling  corpse  before  him  flung, 

And  round  the  trammell'd  ruffian  clung. 

Just  then,  the  soldiers  till'd  the  dome, 

And,  shouting,  charg'd  the  felons  home 

So  fiercely,  that  in  panic  dread, 

They  broke,  they  yielded,  fell,  or  fled, 

Bertram's  stem  voice  they  heed  no  more, 

Though  heard  above  the  battle's  roar ; 

*  Such  an  exhortation  was.  in  similar  circuniftancM,  actttftfly 
given  to  tux  follower*  by  a  Wel.li  cbiofiain. 


540  ROIiEBY.  [CANTO  V. 

While,  trampling  dovrn  the  dying  man, 
He  strove,  with  volley' d  threat  and  ban, 
In  scorn  of  odds,  in  fate's  despite, 
To  rally  up  the  desp'rate  fight. 

XXXIV. 

Soon  murkier  clouds  the  Hall  enfold, 
Than  e'er  from  battle-thunders  roll'd  ! 
So  dense,  the  combatants  scarce  know 
To  aim  or  to  avoid  the  blow. 
Smoth'ring  and  blindfold  grows  the  fight — 
But  soon  shall  dawn  a  dismal  light !        , 
Mid  cries,  and  clashing  arms,  there  came 
The  hollow  sound  of  rushing  flame  ; 
New  horrors  on  the  tumult  dire 
Arise — the  Castle  is  on  fire  ! 
Doubtful,  if  chance  had  cast  the  brand, 
Or  frantic  Bertram's  desp'rate  hand. 
Matilda  saw — for  frequent  broke 
From  the  dim  casements  gusts  of  smoke. 
Yon  tow'r,  which  late  so  clear  defiu'd 
On  the  fair  hemisphere  reclin'd. 
That,  pencill'd  on  its  azure  pure, 
The  eye  could  count  each  embrasure, 
Now,  swath'd  within  the  sweeping  cloud, 
Seems  giant-spectre  in  his  shroud ; 
Till,  from  each  loop-hole  flashing  light, 
A  spout  of  tire  shines  ruddy  bright, 
And,  gathering  to  united  glare, 
Streams  high  into  the  midnight  air ; 
A  dismal  beacon,  far  and  wide, 
That  waken'd  Greta's  slumb'ring  side. 
Soon  all  beneath,  through  gall'ry  long 
And  pendant  arch,  the  fire  flash'd  strong, 
Snatching  whatever  could  maintain, 
Raise,  or  extend,  its  furious  reign ; 
Startling,  with  closer  cause  of  dread, 
The  females  who  the  conflict  fled, 
And  now  rush'd  forth  upon  the  plain, 
Filling  the  air  with  clamours  vain. 

XXXV. 

But  ceas'd  not  yet,  the  Hall  within. 
The  shriek,  the  shout,  the  carnage-din, 


CANTO  V.]  ROKEBY. 

Till  bursting  lattices  give  proof 

The  flames  have  caught  the  rafter'd  roof. 

What !  wait  they  till  its  beams  amain 

Crash  on  the  slayers  and  the  slain.'1 

Th'  alarm  is  caught — the  drawbridge  falls, 

The  warriors  hurry  from  the  walls, 

But,  by  the  conflagration's  light, 

Upon  the  lawn  renew  the  fight. 

Each  straggling  felon  down  was  hew'd, 

Not  one  could  gain  the  sheltering  wood; 

But  forth  th'  affrighted  harper  sprung, 

And  to  Matilda's  robe  he  clung. 

Her  shriek,  entreaty,  and  command, 

Stopp'd  the  pursuer's  lifted  hand, 

Deuzil  and  he  alive  were  ta'en  ; 

The  rest,  save  Bertram,  all  are  slain. 

XXXVI. 

And  where  i:  Bertram  ? — Soaring  high, 
The  gen'ral  flame  ascends  the  sky  ; 
In  gather' d  group  the  soldiers  gaze 
Upon  the  broad  and  roaring  blaze, 
When,  like  infernal  demon,  sent 
Red  from  his  penal  element, 
To  plague  and  to  pollute  the  air, — 
His  face  all  gore,  on  fire  his  hair. 
Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke ! 
His  brandish'd  sword  on  high  he  rears, 
Then  plung'd  among  opposing  spears ; 
Round  his  left  arm  his  mantle  truss' d, 
Receiv'd  and  foil'd  three  lances'  thrust. 
Nor  these  his  headlong  course  withstood, 
Like  reeds  he  snapp'd  the  tough  ash- wood. 
In  vain  his  foes  around  him  clung  ; 
With  matchless  force  aside  he  flung 
Their  boldest, — as  the  bull,  at  bay, 
Tosses  the  ban-dogs  from  his  way, 
Through  forty  foes  his  path  he  made. 
And  safely  gaiu'd  the  forest  glade. 

xxxvii. 

Scarce  was  this  final  cottiict  o'er. 
When  from  the  postern  Redmond  bore 


541 


542  ROKEBT. 

Wilfrid,  -who,  as  of  life  bereft. 
Had  in  the  fatal  Hall  been  left. 
Deserted  there  by  all  his  train  ; 
But  Redmond  saw,  and  turn'd  again.— 
Beneath  an  oak  he  laid  him  down, 
That  in  the  blaze  gleam'd  ruddy  brown, 
And  then  his  mantle's  clasp  undid ; 
Matilda  held  his  drooping  head, 
Till,  giv'n  to  breathe  the  freer  air, 
Returning  life  repaid  their  care. 
He  gaz'd  on  them  with  heavy  sigh, — 
"  I  could  have  wish'd  ev'n  thus  to  die !" 
No  more  he  said — for  now  with  speed 
Each  trooper  had  regain'd  his  steed  ; 
The  ready  palfreys  stood  array'd, 
For  Redmond  and  for  Rokeby's  Maid ; 
Two  Wilfrid  on  his  horse  sustain, 
One  leads  his  charger  by  the  rein. 
But  oft  Matilda  look'd  behind, 
As  up  the  Vale  of  Tees  they  wind, 
Where  far  the  mansion  of  her  sires 
Beacon'd  the  dale  with  midnight  fires. 
Tn  gloomy  arch  above  them  spread, 
The  clouded  heav'n  lower'd  bloody  red : 
Beneath,  in  sombre  light,  the  Hood 
Appear'd  to  roli  in  waves  of  blood. 
Then,  one  by  one,  was  heard  to  fall 
The  tow'r,  the  donjon-keep,  the  hall. 
Each  rushing  down  with  thunder  sound, 
A  space  the  conflagration  drown'd ; 
Till,  gathering  strength,  again  it  rose, 
Announc'd  its  triumph  in  its  close, 
Shook  wide  its  light  the  landscape  o'er, 
Then  sunk— and  Rokeby  was  no  more ! 


[CANTO  VI. 


CANTO  SIXTH. 
I. 

THE  summer  sun,  -whose  early  pow*r 
Was  -wont  to  gild  Matilda's  bow'r, 


CANTO  VI.]  KOKEB*.  543 

And  rouse  her  with  his  matin  ray 
Her  duteous  orisons  to  pay, 
That  morning  sun  has  three  times  seen 
The  flow'rs  unfold  on  Rokeby  green, 
But  sees  no  more  the  slumbers  fly 
From  fair  Matilda's  hazel  eye ; 
That  morning  sun  has  three  times  broke 
On  Rokeby's  glades  of  elm  and  oak, 
But,  rising  from  their  silvan  screen, 
Marks  no  grey  turrets'  glance  between. 
A  shapeless  mass  lie  keep  and  tow'r, 
That,  hissing  to  the  morning  show'r, 
Can  hut  with  smould'ring  vapour  pay 
The  early  smile  of  summer  day. 
The  peasant,  to  his  labour  bound, 
Pauses  to  view  the  blacken'd  mound, 
Striving,  amid  the  ruin'd  space, 
Each  well-remember'd  spot  to  trace. 
That  length  of  frail  and  fire-scorch 'd  wall 
Once  screen' d  the  hospitable  hall ; 
When  yondtr  broken  arch  was  whole, 
'Twas  there  was  dealt  the  weekly  dole ; 
And  where  yon  tott'ring  columns  nod, 
The  chapel  sent  the  hymn  to  God. — 
So  flits  the  world's  uncertain  span  ! 
Nor  zeal  for  God,  nor  love  for  man, 
Gives  mortal  monuments  a  date 
Beyond  the  pow'r  of  Time  and  Fate. 
The  tow'rs  must  share  the  builder's  doom ; 
Ruin  is  theirs,  and  his  a  tomb  : 
But  better  boon  benignant  Heav'n 
To  Faith  and  Charity  has  giv'n, 
And  bids  the  Christian  hope  sublime 
Transcend  the  bounds  of  Fate  and  Time. 


Now  the  third  night  of  summer  came, 
Since  that  which  witness'd  Rokeby's  flame. 
On  Brignall  cliffs  and  Scargill  brake 
The  owlet's  homilies  awake, 
The  bittern  scream'd  from  rush  and  flag, 
The  raven  slumber'd  on  his  crag, 


544  BOKEBT.  [c 

Forth  from  his  den  the  otter  drew, — 
Grayling  and  trout  their  tyrant  knew, 
As  between  reed  and  sedge  he  peers, 
With  fierce  round  snout  and  sharpeu'd  ears, 
Or,  prowling  by  the  moonbeam  cool, 
Watches  the  stream  or  swims  the  pool ; — 
Perch'd  on  his  wonted  eyrie  high, 
Sleep  seal'd  the  tercelet's  wearied  eye, 
That  all  the  day  had  watch'd  so  well 
The  cushat  dart  across  the  dell. 
In  dubious  beam  reflected  shone 
That  lofty  cliff  of  pale  grey  stone, 
Beside  whose  base  the  secret  cave 
To  rapine  late  a  refuge  gave. 
The  crag's  wild  crest  of  copse  and  yew 
On  Greta's  breast  dark  shadows  threw ; 
Shadows  that  met  or  shunn'd  the  sight, 
With  ev'ry  change  of  fitful  light ; 
As  hope  and  fear  alternate  chase 
Our  course  through  life's  uncertain  race. 


Gliding  by  crag  and  copsewood  green, 
A  solitary  form  was  seen 
To  trace  with  stealthy  pace  the  wold. 
Like  fox  that  seeks  the  midnight  fold, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  cow'rs  dismay'd, 
At  ev'ry  breath  that  stirs  the  shade. 
He  passes  now  the  ivy  burfh, — 
The  owl  has  seen  him,  and  is  hush ; 
He  passes  now  the  dodder'd  oak, — 
He  heard  the  startled  raven  croak  ; 
Lower  and  lower  he  descends, 
Rustle  the  leaves,  the  brushwood  bends ; 
The  otter  hears  him  tread  the  shore, 
And  dives,  and  is  beheld  no  more ; 
And  by  the  cliff  of  pale  grey  stone 
The  midnight  wand'rer  stands  alone. 
Methinks.  that  by  the  moon  we  trace 
A  well-remember'd  form  and  face ! 
That  stripling  shape,  that  cheek  so  pale, 
Combine  to  tell  a  rueful  tale, 


CANTO  VI ]  BOICEB7.  545 

Of  pow'ra  misns'd,  of  passion's  force, 
Of  guilt,  of  grief,  and  of  remorse  ! 
Tis  Edmund's  eye,  at  ev'ry  sound 
That  flings  that  guilty  glance  aroncd ; 
Tis  Edmund's  trembling  haste  divides 
The  brushwood  that  the  cavern  hides ; 
And,  when  its  narrow  porch  lies  bare, 
'Tis  Edmund's  form  that  enters  there. 


His  flint  and  steel  have  sparkl'd  bright, 
A  lamp  hath  lent  the  cavern  light 
Fearful  and  quick  his  eye  surveys 
Each  angle  of  the  gloomy  maze. 
Since  last  he  left  that  stern  abode. 
It  seem'd  as  none  its  floor  had  trod ; 
Untouch'd  appear'd  the  various  spoil, 
The  purchase  of  his  comrades'  toil ; 
Masks  and  disguises  grim  d  with  mud, 
Arms  broken  and  defil'd  with  blood. 
And  all  the  nameless  tools  that  aid 
Night-felons  in  their  lawless  trade, 
Upon  the  gloomy  walls  were  hung, 
Or  lay  in  nooks  obscurely  flung. 
Still  on  the  sordid  board  appear 
The  relics  of  the  noontide  cheer  : 
Flagons  and  empty  flasks  were  there, 
And  bench  o'erthrown,  and  shatter'd  chair; 
And  all  around  the  semblance  show'd, 
As  when  the  final  revel  glow'd, 
When  the  red  sun  was  setting  fast, 
And  parting  pledge  Guy  Denzil  past. 
"  To  Rokeby  treasure- vaults  !"  they  quan'd, 
And  shouted  loud  and  wildly  laugh'd, 
Pour'd  madd'ning  from  the  rocky  door. 
And  parted — to  return  no  more ! 
They  found  in  Rokeby  vaults  their  doom, — 
A  bloody  death,  a  burning  tomb ! 

r. 

There  his  own  pennant  dress  he  spies, 
DotFd  to  assume  that  quaint  disguise ; 


546  ROKERY.  [CANTO  Vi 

And  shudd'ring  thought  upon  his  glee, 

When  prank'd  in  garb  01  minstrelsy. 

"  O,  be  the  fatal  art  accurst," 

He  cried,  "that  mov'a  my  loily  first; 

Till,  brib'd  by  bandits'  base  applau.se, 

I  burst  through  trod's  and  Nature's  laws ! 

Three  summer  days  are  scantiy  past 

Since  I  have  trod  this  cavern  last, 

A  thoughtless  wretch,  and  prompt  to  en — 

But,  O,  as  yet  no  murderer  ! 

Ev'n  now  I  list  my  comrades'  cheer, 

That  gen'ral  laugh  is  in  mine  ear, 

Which  rais'd  my  pulse,  and  steel'd  my  heart, 

As  I  rehears'd  my  treach'rous  part — 

And  would  that  all  since  then  could  seem 

The  phantom  of  a  fever  s  dream  ! 

But  fatal  Mem'ry  notes  too  well 

The  horrors  of  the  dying  yell, 

From  my  despairing  mates  that  broke, 

When  flash' d  the  fire  and  roll  d  the  smoke ; 

When  the  avengers  shouting  came, 

And  hemm'd  us  'twixt  the  sword  and  flame ! 

My  frantic  flight,-  the  lifted  brand, — 

That  angel's  interposing  hand  !— 

If,  for  my  life  from  slaughter  freed, 

I  yet  could  pay  some  grateful  meed ! 

Perchance  this  object  of  my  quest 

May  aid" — he  turn'd,  nor  spoke  the  rest. 


Due  northward  from  the  rugged  hearth, 

With  paces  five  he  metes  the  earth, 

Then  toil'd  with  mattock  to  explore 

The  entrails  of  the  cavern  floor, 

Nor  paus'd  till,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 

His  search  a  small  steel  casket  found. 

Just  as  he  stoop'd  to  loose  its  hasp, 

His  shoulder  felt  a  giant  grasp. 

He  started,  and  look'd  up  aghast, 

Then  shriek'd  ! — 'Twas  Bertram  held  him  fast 

"  Fear  not !"  he  said ;  but  who  could  hear 

That  deep  stern  voice,  and  cease  to  fear? 


CANTO  VI.}  ROKEBY. 

"  Fear  not ! — By  heav'n  he  shakes  as  much 

As  partridge  in  the  falcon's  clutch  :" — 

He  rais'd  him,  and  unloosed  his  hold, 

While  from  the  op'ning  casket  roll'd 

A  chain  and  reliquaire  of  gold. 

Bertram  beheld  it  with  surprise, 

Gaz'd  on  its  fashion  and  device, 

Then,  cheering  Edmund  as  he  could, 

Somewhat  he  smooth' d  his  nigged  mood : 

For  still  the  youth's  half-lifted  eye 

Quiver'd  with  terror's  agony, 

And  sidelong  glanc'd,  as  to  explore, 

In  meditated  flight,  the  door. 

"  Sit,"  Bertram  said,  "  from  danger  free : 

Thou  canst  not,  and  thou  shalt  not,  flee. 

Chance  brings  me  hither ;  hill  and  plain 

I've  sought  for  refuge-place  in  vain. 

And  tell  me  now,  thou  aguish  boy. 

What  mak'st  thou  here?  what  means  this  toy? 

Denzil  and  thou,  I  mark'd,  were  ta'en ; 

What  lucky  chance  unbound  your  chain? 

I  deem'd,  long  since  on  Baliol's  tow'r, 

Your  heads  were  warp'd  with  sun  and  show'r. 

Tell  me  the  whole — and,  mark  !  nought  e'er 

Chafes  me  like  falsehood,  or  like  fear." 

Gath'ring  his  courage  to  his  aid, 

But  trembling  still,  the  youth  obey'd. 

VII. 

"  Denzil  and  I  two  nights  pass'd  o'er 

In  fetters  on  the  dungeon  floor. 

A  guest  the  third  sad  morrow  brought ; 

Our  hold  dark  Oswald  Wycliffe  sought, 

And  ey'd  my  comrade  long  askanco, 

With  fix'd  and  penetrating  glance. 

'  Guv  Denzil  art  thou  call  d?' — '  The  same.' — • 

*  At  Court  who  serv'd  wild  Buckinghame ; 

Thence  banish'd,  won  a  keeper's  place, 

So  Villiers  will'd,  in  Marwood-chase ; 

That  lost — I  need  not  tell  thee  why — 

Thou  mad'st  thy  wit  thy  wants  supply, 

Then  fought  for  Rokeby : — Have  I  guess'd 

My  pris'ner  right  P — '  At  thy  behest.'— 


547 


548  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  VL 

He  pans' d  a  -while,  and  then  went  on 

With  low  and  confidential  tone  ; — 

Me,  as  I  judge,  not  then  he  saw, 

Close  nestl'd  in  my  couch  of  straw.— 

1  List  to  me,  Guy.     Thou  know'st  the  great 

Have  frequent  need  of  what  they  hate ; 

Hence,  in  their  favour  oft  we  see 

Unscrupl'd,  useful  men  like  thee. 

Were  I  dispos'd  to  bid  thee  live, 

What  pledge  of  faith  hast  thou  to  give  ?' 

VIII. 

"  The  ready  Fiend,  who  never  yet 
Hath  fail'd  to  sharpen  Denzil's  wit, 
Prompted  his  lie — '  His  only  child 
Should  rest  his  pledge.' — The  Baron  smil'd, 
And  turn'd  to  me — '  Thou  art  his  son  ?' 
I  bow'd — our  fetters  were  undone. 
And  we  were  led  to  hear  apart 
A  dreadful  lesson  of  his  art. 
Wilfrid,  he  said,  his  heir  and  son, 
Had  fair  Matilda's  favour  won; 
And  long  since  had  their  union  been, 
But  for  her  father's  bigot  spleen, 
Whose  brute  and  blindfold  party-rage 
Would,  force  per  force,  her  hand  engage 
To  a  base  kern  of  Irish  earth, 
Unknown  his  lineage  and  his  birth, 
Save  that  a  dying  ruffian  bore 
The  infant  brat  to  Rokeby  door. 
Gentle  restraint,  he  said,  would  lead 
Old  Rokeby  to  enlarge  his  creed ; 
But  fair  occasion  he  must  find 
For  such  restraint  well-meant  and  kind, 
The  Knight  being  render'd  to  his  charge 
But  as  a  prisoner  at  large. 

IX. 

"  He  school'd  us  in  a  well-forg'd  tale, 
Of  scheme  the  Castle  walls  to  scale, 
To  which  was  leagued  each  Cavalier 
That  dwells  upon  the  Tyne  and  Wear ; 
That  Rokeby,  his  parole  forgot, 
Had  dealt  with  us  to  aid  the  plot. 


CANTO  VI.]  ROKEBY.  549 

Such  was  the  charge,  which  Denzil's  zeal 

Of  hate  to  Rokeby  and  O'Neale 

Proffer' d,  as  witness,  to  make  good, 

Ev'n  though  the  forfeit  were  their  blood. 

I  scrupled,  until  o'er  and  o'er 

His  pris'ners'  safety  Wyclift'e  swore ; 

And  then — alas ;  what  needs  there  more  ? 

I  knew  I  should  not  live  to  say 

The  proffer  I  refus'd  that  day ; 

Asham'd  to  live,  yet  loath  to  die, 

I  soil'd  me  with  their  infamy  !" — • 

"  Poor  youth,"  said  Bertram,  "wav'ring  still 

Unfit  alike  for  good  or  ill ! 

But  what  fell  next  ?" — "  Soon  as  at  large 

Was  scroll'd  and  sign'd  our  fatal  charge, 

There  never  yet,  on  tragic  stage, 

Was  seen  so  well  a  painted  rage 

As  Oswald's  show'd  !    With  loud  alarm 

He  call'd  his  garrison  to  arm ; 

From  tow'r  to  tow'r,  from  post  to  post, 

He  hurried  as  if  all  were  lost ; 

Consign'd  to  dungeon  and  to  chain 

The  good  old  knight  and  all  his  train ; 

Warn'd  each  suspected  Cavalier, 

Within  his  limits,  to  appear 

To-morrow,  at  the  hour  of  noon, 

In  the  high  church  of  Eglistone." — 

x. 

*'  Of  Eglistone  ! — Ev'n  now  I  pass'd." 

Said  Bertram,  "  as  the  night  clos'd  fast ; 

Torches  and  cressets  glearn'd  around, 

I  heard  the  saw  and  hammer  sound, 

And  I  could  mark  they  toil'd  to  raise 

A  scaffold,  hung  with  sable  baize, 

Which  the  grim  headsman's  scene  display'd, 

Block,  axe,  and  sawdust  ready  laid. 

Some  evil  deed  will  there  be  done, 

Unless  Matilda  wed  his  son  ; — 

She  loves  him  not — 'tis  shrewdly  guess'd 

That  Redmond  rules  the  damsel  s  breast. 

This  is  a  turn  of  Oswald's  skill ; 

But  I  may  meet,  and  foil  him  still ! 


550 


[CANTO  VI 


How  cam'st  thou  to  thy  freedom  ?" — "  There 

Lies  mystery  more  dark  and  rare. 

In  midst  of  Wycliffe's  well  feign' d  rage, 

A  scroll  was  offer' d  by  a  page, 

Who  told,  a  muffled  horsemen  late 

Had  left  it  at  the  Castle  gate. 

He  broke  the  seal — his  cheek  show'd  change, 

Sudden,  portentous,  wild,  and  strange ; 

The  mimic  passion  of  his  eye 

Was  turn'd  to  actual  agony ; 

His  hand  like  summer  sapling  shook, 

Terror  and  guilt  were  in  his  look. 

Denzil  he  judg'd,  in  time  of  need, 

Fit  counsellor  for  evil  deed; 

And  thus  apart  his  counsel  broke 

While  with  a  ghastly  smile  he  spoke  : — 


"  '  As  in  the  pageants  of  the  stage, 

The  dead  awake  in  this  wild  age, 

Mortham — whom  all  men  deem'd  decreed 

In  his  own  deadly  snare  to  bleed, 

Slain  by  a  bravo,  whom,  o'er  sea, 

He  train'd  to  aid  in  murd'ring  me, — 

Mortham  has  'scaped  !  The  coward  shot 

The  steed,  but  harm'd  the  rider  not.' " 

Here,  with  an  execration  fell, 

Bertram  leap'd  up,  and  pac  d  the  cell : — • 

"  Thine  own  grey  head,  or  bosom  dark," 

He  mutter'd,  "  may  be  surer  mark  !" 

Then  sat,  and  sign'd  to  Edmund,  pale 

With  terror,  to  resume  his  tale. 

"  Wycliffe  went  on  : — '  Mark  with  what  flights 

Of  wilder'd  reverie  he  writes  : — 

THE  LETTED.       « 

"  Ruler  of  Mortham's  destiny  ! 

Though  dead,  thy  victim  lives  to  thee. 

Once  had  he  all  that  binds  to  life 

A  lovely  child,  a  lovelier  wife ; 

Wealth,  fame,  and  friendship,  were  his  otra  — • 

Thou  gav'gt  the  word,  and  they  are  flown. 


CANTO  VI.]          BOKEBV. 

Mark  how  he  pays  thee  : — To  thy  hand 
He  yields  his  honours  and  his  laud. 
One  boon  premis'd  ; — Restore  his  child! 
And,  from  his  native  land  exil'd, 
Mortham  no  more  returns  to  claim 
His  lands,  his  honours,  or  his  name ; 
Refuse  him  this,  and  from  the  slain 
Thou  shalt  see  Mortham  rise  again.1 — 


"  This  billet  while  the  baron  read, 
His  falt'ring  accents  show'd  his  dread ; 
He  press' d  his  forehead  with  his  palm, 
Then  took  a  scornful  tone  and  calm ; 
'  Wild  as  the  winds,  as  billows  wild  ! 
What  wot  I  of  liis  spouse  or  child? 
Hither  he  brought  a  joyous  dame. 
Unknown  her  lineage  or  her  name ; 
Her,  in  some  frantic  fit,  he  slew ; 
The  nurse  and  child  in  fear  withdrew. 
Heav'n  be  my  witness  !  wist  I  where 
To  find  this  youth,  my  kinsman's  heir, — 
Unguerdon'd,  I  would  give  with  joy 
The  father's  arms  to  fold  his  boy, 
And  Mortham's  lands  and  tow'rs  resign 
To  the  just  heirs  of  Mortham's  line.' — 
Thou  know'st  that  scarcely  e'en  his  fear 
Suppresses  Denzil's  cynic  sneer ; — 
'Then  happy  is  thy  vassal's  part,' 
He  said,  'to  ease  his  patron's  heart! 
In  thine  own  jailer's  watchful  care 
Lies  Mortham's  just  and  rightful  heir; 
Thy  gen'rous  wish  is  fully  won, — 
Redmond  O'Neale  is  Mortham's  son.* — 


"  Up  starting  with  a  frenzied  look, 
His  clenched  hand  the  Baron  shook : 
*  Is  Hell  at  work  ?  or  dost  thou  rave, 
Or  dar'st  thou  palter  with  me,  slave  ! 
Perchance  thou  wot'st  not,  Barnard's  towers 
Have  racks,  of  strange  and  ghastly  powers.' 


551 


552  ROKEBT.  tCAHTO  VI 

Denzil,  who  -well  his  safety  knew, 

Firmly  rejoin'd  '  I  tell  thee  true. 

Thy  racks'  could  give  thee  but  to  know 

The  proofs,  which  I,  untortured  show. 

It  chanc'd  upon  a  winter  night, 

When  early  snow  made  Stanmore  white, 

That  very  night,  when  first  of  all, 

Redmond  O'Neale  saw  Rokeby-hal!, 

It  was  my  goodly  lot  to  gain 

A  reliquary  and  a  chain, 

Twisted  and  chas'd  of  massive  gold. 

— Demand  not  how  the  prize  I  hold! 

It  was  not  giv'n,  nor  lent,  nor  sold.— 

Gilt  tablets  to  the  chain  were  hung, 

With  letters  in  the  Irish  tongue. 

I  hid  my  spoil,  for  there  was  need 

That  I  should  leave  the  land  with  speed ; 

Nor  then  I  deem'd  it  safe  to  bear 

On  mine  own  person  gems  so  rare. 

Small  heed  I  of  the  tablets  took, 

But  since  have  spell'd  them  by  the  hook, 

When  some  sojourn  in  Erin's  land 

Of  their  wild  speech  had  given  command. 

But  darkling  was  the  sense ;  the  phrase 

And  language  those  of  other  days, 

Involved  of  purpose,  as  to  foil 

An  interloper's  prying  toil. 

The  words,  but  not  the  sense,  I  knew, 

Till  fortune  gave  the  guiding  clew. 

xiv. 

" '  Three  days  since  was  that  clue  reveal'd 
In  Thorsgill  as  I  lay  conceal'd, 
And  heard  at  full  when  Rokeby's  Maid 
Her  uncle's  history  displayed ; 
And  now  I  can  interpret  well 
Each  syllable  the  tablets  tell. 
Mark,  then  :  Fair  Edith  was  the  joy 
Of  old  O'Neale  of  Clandeboy ; 
But  from  her  sire  and  country  fled, 
In  secret  Mortham's  lord  to  wed. 
O'Neale,  his  first  resentment  o'er, 
Despatch' d  his  son  to  Greta's  shore, 


CANTO  VL]  BOKEBT.  553 

Enjoining  he  should  make  him  known 
(Until  his  farther  will  were  shown) 
To  Edith,  but  to  her  alone. 
What  of  their  ill-starr'd  meeting  fell, 
Lord  Wycliffe  knows,  and  none  &o  'well. 

XT. 

" '  O'Neale  it  was,  who,  in  despair, 
Robb'd  Mortham  of  his  infant  heir; 
He  bred  him  in  their  nurture  wild, 
And  call'd  him  murder'd  Connal's  child. 
Soon  died  the  nurse ;  the  Clan  believ'd 
What  from  their  Chieftain  they  receiv'd. 
His  purpose  was,  that  ne'er  again 
The  boy  should  cross  the  Irish  main ; 
But,  like  his  mountain  sires,  enjoy 
The  woods  and  wastes  of  Clandebov. 
Then  on  the  land  wild  troubles  came, 
And  stronger  Chieftains  urged  a  claim, 
And  wrested  from  the  old  man's  hands 
His  native  tow'rs,  his  father's  lands. 
Unable  then,  amid  the  strife, 
To  guard  young  Redmond's  rights  or  life, 
Late  and  reluctant  he  restores 
The  infant  to  his  native  shores, 
With  goodly  gifts  and  letters  stor'd, 
With  many  a  deep  conjuring  word, 
To  Mortham  and  to  Rokebjrs  Lord. 
Nought  knew  the  clod  of  Irish  earth, 
Who  was  the  guide,  of  Redmond's  birth ; 
But  deem'd  his  Chiefs  commands  were  laid 
On  both,  by  both  to  be  obey'd. 
How  he  was  wounded  by  the  way 
I  need  not,  and  I  list  not  say.' — 


" '  A  wond'rous  tale !  and,  grant  it  true, 
What,'  Wycliffe  answer'd,  '  might  I  do  ? 
Heav'n  knows,  as  willingly  as  now 
I  raise  the  bonnet  from  my  brow, 
Would  I  my  kinsman's  manors  fair, 
Restore  to  Mortham  or  his  heir ; 
2  A. 


554 


[CANTO  VI. 


But  Mortham  is  distraught — O'Neale 
Has  drawn  for  tyranny  his  steel, 
Malignant  to  our  rightful  cause, 
And  train' d  in  Rome's  delusive  laws. 
Hark  thee  apart !' — They  whisper' d  long, 
Till  Denzil's  voice  grew  bold  and  strong : — 
'  My  proofs!  I  never  will,'  he  said, 
'  Show  mortal  man  where  they  are  laid. 
Nor  hope  discovery  to  foreclose, 
By  giving  me  to  feed  the  crows  ; 
For  I  have  mates  at  large,  who  know 
Where  I  am  wont  such  toys  to  stow. 
Free  me  from  peril  and  from  band, 
These  tablets  are  at  thy  command  ; 
Nor  were  it  hard  to  form  some  train, 
To  wile  old  Mortham  o'er  the  main. 
Then,  lunatic's  nor  papist's  hand 

Should  wrest  from  thine  the  goodly  land.' . 

— '  I  like  thy  wit,'  said  Wycliffe,  '  we!)  r 
But  here  in  hostage  shalt  thou  dwell. 
Thy  son,  unless  my  purpose  err, 
May  prove  the  trustier  messenger. 
A  scroll  to  Mortham  shall  he  bear 
From  me,  and  fetch  these  tokens  rare. 
Gold  sludt  thou  have,  and  that  good  store, 
And  freedom,  his  commission  o  er  ; 
But  if  his  faith  should  chance  to  fail, 
The  gibbet  frees  thee  from  the  jail.' 

XVII. 

"  Mesh'd  in  the  net  himself  had  t>FTn'd, 
What  subterfuge  could  Denzil  find? 
He  told  me,  with  reluctant  sigh, 
That  hidden  here  the  tokens  lie ; 
Conjur'd  my  swift  return  and  aid, 
By  all  he  scoff'd  and  disobey' d, 
And  look'd  as  if  the  noose  were  tied, 
And  I  the  priest  who  left  his  side. 
This  scroll  for  Mortham  Wycliffe  gave, 
Whom  I  must  seek  by  Greta  s  waf  oj 
Or  in  the  hut  where  chief  he  hides, 
Where  Thorsgill's  forester  resides. 


CANTO  -VT.]  EOKEBY. 

(Thence  cbanc'd  it,  wand'ring  in  the  glade, 

That  he  descried  our  ambuscade). 

I  was  dismiss'd  as  evening  fell. 

And  reach'd  but  now  this  rocky  cell.™— 

"  Give  Oswald's  letter." — Bertram  read, 

And  tore  it  fiercely,  shred  by  shred : — • 

"  All  lies  and  villany  !  to  blind 

His  noble  kinsman's  generous  mind, 

And  train  him  on  from  day  to  day, 

Till  he  can  take  his  life  away. — 

And  now,  declare  thy  purpose,  youth, 

Nor  dare  to  answer,  save  the  truth ; 

If  aught  I  mark  of  Denzil's  art, 

I'll  tear  the  secret  from  thv  heart  I"— 


"  It  needs  not.     I  renounce,"  he  said, 

My  tutor  and  his  deadly  trade. 

Fix'd  was  my  purpose  to  declare 

To  Mortham,  Redmond  is  his  heir ; 

To  tell  him  in  what  risk  he  stands, 

And  yield  these  tokens  to  his  hands. 

Fix'd  was  my  purpose  to  atone, 

Far  as  I  may,  the  evil  done ; 

And  iix'd  it  rests — if  I  survive 

This  night,  nnd  leave  this  cave  alive." — 

"  And  Denzil  ?" — "  Let  them  ply  the  rack, 

Ev'n  till  his  joints  and  sinews  crack! 

If  Oswald  tear  him  limb  from  limb, 

What  ruth  can  Denzil  claim  from  him, 

Whose  thoughtless  youth  he  led  astray, 

And  damn'd  to  this  unhallow  d  way? 

He  school'd  me,  faith  and  vows  were  vain; 

Now  let  my  master  reap  his  gain." — 

"  True,"  answer'd  Bertram,  "  'tis  his  meed 

There's  retribution  in  the  deed. 

But  thou — thou  art  not  for  our  course, 

Hast  fear,  hast  pity,  hast  remorse ; 

And  he,  with  us  the  gale  who  braves, 

Must  heave  such  cargo  to  the  waves, 

Or  lag  with  overloaded  orore, 

While  barks  unburden'd'  reach  the  shore." 


655 


556  ROKEBT.  [CANTO  VI. 

XIX. 

He  paus'd,  and,  stretching  him  at  length. 
Seem'd  to  repose  his  bulky  strength. 
Communing  with  his  secret  mind, 
As  half  he  sat,  and  half  reclin'd, 
One  ample  hand  his  forehead  press'd, 
And  one  was  dropp'd  across  his  hreast. 
The  shaggy  eyebrows  deeper  came 
Above  his  eyes  of  swarthy  flame ; 
His  lip  of  pride  a  while  forbore 
The  haughty  curve  till  then  it  wore ; 
Th'  unalter  d  fierceness  of  his  look 
A  shade  of  darken'd  badness  took, — 
For  dark  and  sad  a  presage  press'd 
Resistlessly  on  Bertram's  breast, — 
And  when  he  spoke,  his  wonted  tone, 
So  fierce,  abrupt,  and  brief,  was  gone. 
His  voice  was  steady,  low,  and  deep, 
Like  distant  waves  when  breezes  sleep ; 
And  sorrow  mix'd  with  Edmund's  fear, 
Its  low  unbroken  depth  to  hear. 

XX. 

"  Edmund,  in  thy  sad  tale  I  find 
The  woe  that  warp'd  my  patron's  mind, 
'Twould  wake  the  fountains  of  the  eye 
In  other  men,  but  mine  are  dry. 
Mortham  must  never  see  the  fool, 
That  sold  himself  base  Wycliffe's  tool ; 
Yet  less  from  thirst  of  sordid  gain, 
Than  to  avenge  suppos'd  disdain. 
Say,  Bertram  rues  his  fault ; — a  word, 
Till  now,  from  Bertram  never  heard : 
Say,  too,  that  Mortham's  Lord  he  pray* 
To  think  but  on  their  former  days; 
On  Quariana's  beach  and  rock, 
On  Cayo's  bursting  battle-shock, 
On  Darien's  sands  and  deadly  dew, 
And  on  the  dart  Tlatzeca  threw  ;— 
Perchance  my  patron  yet  may  hear 
More  that  may  grace  his  comrade's  bier. 
My  soul  hath  felt  a  secret  weight, 
A  warning  oi'  approaching  fate : 


OANTO  VI.J  ROKEBY.  557 

A  priest  had  said,  '  Return,  repent  P 
As  well  to  bid  that  rock  be  rent. 
Firm  as  that  flint  I  face  mine  end ; 
My  heart  may  burst,  but  cannot  bend. 

XXI. 

"  The  dawning  of  my  youth,  with  awe 
And  prophecy,  the  Dalesmen  saw  ; 
For  over  Redesdale  it  came, 
As  bodeful  as  their  beacon-flame. 
Edmund,  thy  years  were  scarcely  mine, 
When,  challenging  the  Clans  of  Tyiie 
To  bring  their  best  my  brand  to  prove. 
O'er  Hexham's  altar  hung  my  glove;* 
But  Tynedale,  nor  in  tower  nor  town, 
Held  champion  meet  to  take  it  down. 
My  noontide,  India  may  declare ; 
Like  her  fierce  sun,  I  fir'd  the  air! 
Like  him,  to  wood  and  cave  bade  fly 
Her  natives,  from  mine  angry  eye. 
Panama's  maids  shall  long  look  pale 
When  Risingham  inspires  the  tale ; 
Chili's  dark  matrons  long  shall  tame 
The  froward  child  with  Bertram's  name. 
And  now,  my  race  of  terror  run, 
Mine  be  the  eve  of  tropic  sun  ! 
No  pale  gradations  quench  his  ray, 
No  twilight  dews  his  wrath  allay; 
With  disk  like  battle-target  red, 
He  rushes  to  his  burning  bed, 

*  This  custom  among  the  Redesdale  and  Tynedale  Borderen  'a 
thus  mentioned  in  the  interesting  Life  of  Bernard  Gilpin.  "  One 
Sunday  morning,  coining  to  a  i  hurch  in  those  parts,  before  the 
people  were  assembled,  he  observed  a  glove  hanging  up,  and  wag 
informed  by  the  sexton,  that  it  was  me  mt  as  a  challenge  to  any 

reach  it  him ;  but  upon  his  utterly  refusing  to  touon  it,  he  took  it 
down  himself,  and  put  it  into  his  breast.  When  the  people  were 
assembled,  he  went  into  the  pulpit,  and,  before  he  concluded  hia 
sermon,  took  occasion  to  rebuke  them  severely  for  these  inhuman 
challenges.  'I  hear,'  said  h-,  't:.i:  one  among  you  hath  hanged 
up  a  glove,  even  in  this  sacred  place,  threatening  to  fight  any  one 
•who  taketh  it  down:  see,  I  have  tak.-n  it  down:'  and,  pulling  out 
the  glove,  he  held  it  up  to  the  cnngre^nti'm,  and  then  showed  them 
bow  unsuitable  such  savage  practices  were  to  the  profession  of 
Christianity,  using  suoh  per.uasives  to  mutual  love  as  he  thought 
would  most  affect  iham."— Life  of  Bernard  Gilpin,  Loud.  17SS, 
Svu.  p.  177. 


558  HOKEBY.  CCANTO  Vlv 

Dyes  the  -wide  wave  with  bloody  light, 
Then  sinks  at  once — and  all  is  night.— • 

xxn, 

"  Now  to  thy  mission,  Edmund.     Fly, 
Seek  Mortham  out,  and  hid  him  hie 
To  Richmond,  where  his  troops  are  laid, 
And  lead  his  force  to  Redmond's  aid. 
Say,  till  he  reaches  Eglistone, 
A  friend  will  watch  to  guard  his  son. 
Now,  fare-thee-well ;  for  night  draws  on, 
And  I  would  rest  me  here  alone." 
Despite  his  ill-dissembl'd  fear, 
There  swam  in  Edmund's  eye  a  tear; 
A  tribute  to  the  courage  high, 
Which  stoop'd  not  in  extremity, 
But  strove,  irregularly  great, 
To  triumph  o'er  approaching  fate ! 
Bertram  beheld  the  dew-drop  start, 
It  almost  touch'd  his  iron  heart : — 
"  I  did  not  think  there  lived,"  he  said, 
"  One,  who  would  tear  for  Bertram  shed." 
He  loosen'd  then  his  baldric's  hold, 
A  buckle  broad  of  massive  gold ; — 
"  Of  all  the  spoil  that  paid  his  pains, 
But  this  with  Risingham  remains  ; 
And  this,  dear  Edmund,  thou  shalt  take, 
And  wear  it  long  for  Bertram's  sake, 
Once  more — to  Mortham  speed  amain; 
Farewell !  and  turn  thee  not  again." 

XXIII. 

The  night  has  yielded  to  the  morn, 
And  far  the  hours  of  prime  are  worn, 
Oswald,  who,  since  the  dawn  of  day, 
Had  curs'd  his  messenger's  delay. 
Impatient  question' d  now  his  train, 
"  Was  Denzil's  son  return'd  again  ?" 
It  chanc'd  there  answer' d  of  the  crew, 
A  menial,  who  young  Edmund  knew; 
"  No  son  of  Denzil  this," — he  said  ; 
A  peasant  boy  from  Winston  glade, 


CAITTO  VL]  ROK.EBY.  659 

For  song  and  minstrelsy  renown'd, 

And  knavish  pranks,  the  hamlets  round  "-~ 

Not  Denzil's  son  !— From  Winston  vale  !— 
I  hen  it  was  false,  that  specious  tale; 
Or,  worse— he  hath  despatch'd  the  j'outh 
1  o  show  to  Mortham's  Lord  its  truth. 
Fool  that  I  was  !— but  'tis  too  late  •— . 

This  is  the  very  turn  of  fate  ! 

The  tale,  or  true  or  false,  relies 
On  Denzil's  evidence  !— He  dies  !— 
Ho  !  Provost  Marshal !  instantly' 
Lead  Denzil  to  the  gallows-tree ! 
Allow  him  not  a  parting  word  ; 
Short  be  the  shrift,  and  sure  the  cord ! 
Then  let  his  gory  head  appal 
Marauders  from  the  Castle-wall 
Lead  forth  thy  guard,  that  duty 'done, 
VV  ith  best  despatch  to  Eglistuue— 
Basil,  tell  Wilfrid  he  must  straight 
Attend  me  at  the  castle-gate." 

XXIV. 

"  Alas  P'  the  old  domestic  said, 
And  shook  his  venerable  head, 
"  Alas,  my  Lord  !  full  ill  to-day 
May  my  young  master  brook  the  way  ! 
The  leech  has  spoke  with  grave  alarm, 
Of  unseen  hurt,  of  secret  harm, 
Of  sorrow  lurking  at  the  h^art, 
That  mars  and  lets  his  healing  art."^ 
"Tush,  teil  not  me  !— Romantic  bov$ 
Pine  themselves  sick  for  airy  toys   "* 
I  will  find  cure  for  Wilfrid  soon  • 
Bid  him  for  Eglistone  be  boune 
And  quick  !  I  hear  the  dull  death-drum 
Jell  Uenzil  s  hour  of  fate  is  come." 
He  paus'd  with  scornful  smile,  and  then 
Resum'd  his  train  of  thought  agen. 
"Now  comes  my  fortune's  crisis  near! 
Entreaty  boots  not — instant  fear 
Nought  elae,  can  bend  Matilda's' pride 
Or  win  her  to  be  Wilfrid's  bride. 


560  ROKEB7.  {CANTO  VI. 

But  when  she  sees  the  scaffold  plac'd. 

With  axe  and  block  and  headsman  grac'd, 

And  when  she  deems,  that  to  deny 

Dooms  Redmond  and  her  sire  to  die, 

She  must  give  way. — Then,  were  the  line 

Of  Rokehy  once  combin'd  with  mine, 

I  gain  the  weather-gage  of  fate  ! 

If  Mortham  come,  he  comes  too  late, 

While  I,  thus  allied  and  prepared, 

Bid  him  defiance  to  his  heard. — 

— If  she  prove  stubborn,  shall  I  dare 

To  drop  the  axe  ? — Soft !  pause  we  there. 

Mortham  still  lives — yon  youth  may  tell 

His  tale — and  Fail  fax  loves  him  well  ;• — • 

Else,  where  ii  re  should  I  now  delay 

To  sweep  this  Redmond  from  my  way? 

But  she  to  piety  perforce 

Must  yield. — Without  there  !  Sound  to  horse." 

XXV. 

'Twas  bustle  in  the  court  below, — 

"  Mount,  and  march  forward  !" — Forth  they  go ; 

Steeds  neigh  and  trample  all  around, 

Steel  rings,  spears  glimmer,  trumpets  sound.— 

Just  then  was  sung  his  parting  hymn  ; 

And  Denzil  turn'd  his  eyeballs  dim, 

And,  scarcely  conscious  what  he  sees, 

Follows  the  horsemen  down  the  Tees ; 

And  scarcely  conscious  what  he  hears, 

The  trumpets  tingle  in  his  ears. 

O'er  the  long  bridge  they're  sweeping  noW 

The  van  is  hid  by  greenwood  bough ; 

But  ere  the  rearward  had  pass'd  o'er, 

Guy  Denzil  heard  and  saw  no  more  \ 

One  stroke,  upon  the  Castle  bell, 

To  Oswald  rung  his  dying  knell. 

XXVI. 

O,  for  that  pencil,  erst  profuse 

Of  chivalry's  emblazon'd  hues, 

That  trac'd  of  old,  in  Woodstock  bower, 

The  pageant  of  the  Leaf  and  Flower, 


CANTO  VL]  EOKEBT. 

And  bodied  forth  the  tourney  high, 
Held  for  the  hand  of  Einily ! 
Then  might  I  paint  the  tumult  broad, 
That  to  the  crowded  abbey  flow'd, 
And  pour'd,  as  •with  an  ocean's  sound, 
Into  the  church's  ample  bound  ! 
Then  might  I  show  each  varying  mien, 
Exulting,  woeful,  or  serene ; 
IndiiFrence,  with  his  idiot  stare, 
And  Sympathy,  with  anxious  air, 
Paint  the  dejected  Cavalier, 
Doubtful,  disarm'd,  and  sad  of  cheer; 
And  his  proud  foe,  whose  formal  eye 
Claim'd  conquest  now  and  mastery  ; 
And  the  brute  crowd,  whose  envious  zeal 
Huzzas  each  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel, 
And  loudest  shouts  when  lowest  lie 
Exalted  worth  and  station  high. 
Yet  what  may  such  a  wish  avail? 
'Tis  mine  to  tell  an  onward  tale, 
Hurrying,  as  best  I  can,  along, 
The  hearers  and  the  hasty  song ; — 
Like  trav'ller  when  approaching  home, 
Who  sees  the  shades  of  evening  come, 
And  must  not  now  his  course  delay, 
Or  choose  the  fair,  but  winding  way ; 
Nay,  scarcely  may  his  pace  suspend, 
Where  o'er  his  head  the  wildings  bend, 
,To  bless  the  breeze  that  cools  his  brow, 
Or  snatch  a  blossom  from  the  bough. 


The  rev'rend  pile  lay  wild  and  waste, 
Profan'd,  dishonour'd,  and  defac'd. 
Tnror.gh  storied  lattices  no  more 
In  soften'd  light  the  sunbeams  pour, 
Gilding  the  Gothic  sculpture  rich 
Of  shrine,  and  monument,  and  niche, 
fhe  Civil  fury  of  the  time 
Made  sport  of  sacrilegious  crime ; 
For  dark  Fanaticism  rent 
Altar,  and  screen,  and  ornament, 
2  A  2 


561 


562 


[CANTO  VJ. 


And  peasant  hands  the  tomhs  o'erthrew 
Of  Bowes,  of  Rokeby,  and  Fitz-Hugh. 
And  now  was  seen,  unwonted  sight, 
In  holy  walls  a  scaffold  dight! 
Where  once  the  priest,  of  grace  divine 
Dealt  to  his  flock  the  mystic  sign  ; 
There  stood  the  block  display'd,  and  there 
The  headsman  grim  his  hatchet  bare ; 
And  for  the  word  of  Hope  and  Faith, 
Resounded  loud  a  doom  of  death. 
Thrice  the  fierce  trumpet's  breath  was  heard, 
And  echo'd  thrice  the  herald's  word, 
Dooming,  for  breach  of  martial  laws, 
And  treason  to  the  Commons'  cause, 
The  Knight  of  Rokeby  and  O'Neale 
To  stoop  their  heads  to  block  and  steel. 
The  trumpets  flourish'd  high  and  shrill, 
Then  was  a  silence  dead  and  still ; 
And  silent  pray'rs  to  heav'n  were  cast, 
And  stifling  sobs  were  bursting  fast, 
Till  from  the  crowd  began  to  rise 
Murmurs  of  sorrow  or  surprise, 
And  from  the  distant  isles  there  came 
Deep-mutter'd  threats,  with  Wycliffe's  name. 

XXVIII. 

But  Oswald,  guarded  by  his  band. 

Pow'rful  in  evil,  wav'd  his  hand, 

And  bade  Sedition's  voice  be  dead, 

On  peril  of  the  murm'rer's  head, 

Then  first  his  glance  sought  Rokeby's  Knight ; 

Who  gaz'd  on  the  tremendous  sight, 

As  calm  as  if  he  came  a  guest 

To  kindred  Baron's  feudal  feast, 

As  calm  as  if  that  trumpet-call 

Were  summons  to  the  banner'd  hall ; 

Firm  in  his  loyalty  he  stood, 

And  prompt  to  seal  it  with  his  blood. 

With  downcast  look  drew  Oswald  nigh, — 

He  durst  not  cope  with  Rokeby's  eye  ! — 

And  said,  with  low  and  falt'ring  breath, 

"  Thou  know'st  the  terms  of  life  and  death." 


CANTO  VI.]  ROKEBT.  563 

The  Knight  then  turn'd,  and  sternly  smil'd ; 

"  The  maiden  is  miue  only  child, 

Yet  shall  my  blessing  leave  her  head, 

If  with  a  traitor's  son  she  wed." 

Then  Redmond  spoke  :  "  The  life  of  one 

Might  thy  malignity  atone, 

On  me  he  flung  a  double  guilt ! 

Spare  Rokeby's  blood,  let  mine  be  spilt !" 

Wycliffe  had  listen' d  to  his  suit, 

But  dread  prevail'd,  and  he  was  mute. 

XXIX. 

And  now  he  pours  his  choice  of  fear 

In  secret  on  Matilda's  ear ; 

"  An  union  form'd  with  me  and  mine, 

Ensures  the  faith  of  Rokeby's  line. 

Consent,  and  all  this  dread  array, 

Like  morning  dream  shall  pass  away  ! 

Refuse,  and,  by  my  duty  press' d, 

I  give  the  word— thou  know'st  the  rest." 

Matilda,  still  and  motionless, 

With  terror  heard  the  dread  address, 

Pale  as  the  sheeted  maid  who  dies 

To  hopeless  love  a  sacrifice ; 

Then  wrung  her  hands  in  agony, 

And  round  her  cast  bewilder'd  eye. 

Now  on  the  scaffold  glanc'd,  and  now 

On  Wycliffe's  unrelenting  brow. 

She  veil'd  her  face,  and,  with  a  voice 

Scarce  audible, — "  I  make  my  choice  ! 

Spare  hut  their  lives  ! — for  aught  beside, 

Let  Wilfrid's  doom  my  fate  decide. 

He  once  was  gen'rous  r — As  she  spoke, 

Dark  Wycliffe's  joy  in  triumph  broke  : — 

"  \Vilfrid,  where  loiter'd  ye  so  late? 

Why  upon  Basil  rest  thy  weight  ? — 

Art  spell-bound  by  enchanter  s  wand  ? — 

Kneel,  kneel,  and  take  her  yielded  hand; 

Thank  her  with  ruptures,  simple  boy ! 

Should  tears  and  trembling  speak  thy  joy  ?"— 

"  O  hush,  my  sire  !  To  pray'r  and  tear 

Of  mine  thou  hast  refus'd  thine  ear ; 


564  ROKEBY.  [CANTO  VI. 

But  now  the  awful  hour  draws  on, 
When  truth  must  speak  in  loftier  tone." 

XXX. 

He  took  Matilda's  hand  ;— "  Dear  maid, 

Couldst  thou  so  injure  me,"  he  said, 

"  Of  thy  poor  friend  so  basely  deem, 

As  blend  with  him  this  barb  rous  scheme  : 

Alas !  my  efforts  made  in  vain, 

Might  well  have  sav'd  this  added  pain. 

But  now,  hear  witness,  earth  and  heaven, 

That  ne'er  was  hope  to  mortal  given, 

So  twisted  with  the  strings  of  life, 

As  this — to  call  Matilda  wife ! 

I  hid  it  now  for  ever  part, 

And  with  the  effort  bursts  my  heart." 

His  feeble  frame  was  worn  so  low, 

With  wounds,  with  watching,  find  with  woe, 

That  nature  could  no  more  sustain 

The  agony  of  mental  ,  .an. 

He  kneel' d — his  lip  her  hand  had  press'd,— 

Just  then  he  felt  the  stern  arrest. 

Lower  and  lower  sunk  his  head, — 

They  raised  him, — hut  the  life  was  fled ! 

Then,  first  alarm'd,  his  sire  and  train 

Tried  ev'ry  aid,  hut  tried  in  vain. 

The  soul,  too  soft  its  ills  to  bear. 

Had  left  our  mortal  hemisphere, 

And  sought  in  better  world  the  meed, 

To  blameless  life  by  Heav'n  decreed. 

XXXI. 

The  wretched  sire  beheld,  aghast, 
With  Wilfrid  all  his  projects  past, 
All  turn'd  and  centred  on  his  son, 
On  Wilfrid  all — and  he  was  gone. 
"  And  I  am  childless  now,"  he  said : 
"  Childless,  through  that  relentless  maid/, 
A  lifetime's  arts,  in  vain  essay' d, 
Are  bursting  on  their  artist's  head ! — 
Here  lies  my  Wilfrid  dead— and  there 
Comes  hated  Mortham  for  his  heir, 


CANTO  VI.]  ROKEBT.  £65 

Eager  to  knit  ir  happy  band 

"With  Rokeby's  heiress  Redmond's  hand. 

And  shall  their  triumph  soar  o'er  all 

The  schemes  deep-laid  to  work  their  fall? 

No  ! — deeds,  which  prudence  might  not  dare, 

Appal  not  vengeance  and  despair. 

The  murd'ress  weeps  upon  his  bier — 

I'll  change  to  real  that  feigned  tear  ! 

The,  .Jl  shall  share  destruction's  shock; — 

Ho  !  lead  the  captives  to  the  block  f — 

But  ill  his  Provost  could  divine 

His  feelings,  and  forbore  the  sign. 

**  Slave  !  to  the  block  ! — or  I,  or  they, 

Snail  face  the  judgment-seat  this  day  !" 


The  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound, 
Like  horse's  hoof  on  harden'd  ground ; 
Nearer  it  came,  and  yet  more  near, — 
The  very  deaths-men  paus'd  to  hear. 
'Tis  in  the  churchyard  now — the  tread 
Hath  wak'd  the  dwelling  of  the  dead  ! 
Fresh  sod,  and  old  sepulchral  stone, 
Return  the  tramp  in  varied  tone. 
All  eyes  upon  the  gateway  hung, 
When  through  the  Gothic  arch  there  sprung 
A  horseman  arm'd,  at  headlong  speed — 
Sable  his  cloak,  his  plume,  his  steed. 
Fire  from  the  flinty  floor  -was  spurn'd, 
The  vaults  unwonted  clang  return'd !— • 
One  instant's  glance  around  he  threw 
From  saddlebow  his  pistol  drew. 
Grimly  determin'd  was  his  look  ! 
His  charger  with  the  spurs  he  strook — 
All  scatter'd  backward  as  he  came, 
For  all  knew  Bertram  Risingham  !    • 
Three  bounds  that  noble  courser  gave ; 
The  first  has  reach'd  the  central  nave, 
The  second  clear'd  the  chancel  wide, 
The  third — he  was  at  Wycliffe's  side. 
Full  levell'd  at  the  Baron  s  head, 
Rung  the  report — the  bullet  sped — • 


566  BOKEBY.  [CANTO  VI. 

And  to  his  long  account,  and  last, 
Without  a  groan  dark  Oswald  past! 
All  w.-.s  so  quick,  that  it  might  seem 
A  flash  of  light' ning,  or  a  dream. 


While  yet  the  smoke  the  deed  conceals, 
Bertram  his  ready  charger  wheels ; 
But  flounder' d  on  the  pavement-floor 
The  steed,  knd  down  the  rider  bore, 
And,  bursting  in  the  headlong  sway, 
The  faithless  saddle-girths  gave  way. 
'Twas  while  he  toil'd  him  to  be  freed, 
And  with  the  rein  to  raise  the  steed, 
That  from  amazement's  iron  trance 
All  Wycliffe's  soldiers  wak  d  at  once. 
Sword,  hallerd,  musket- but,  their  blows 
Hail'd  upon  Bertram  as  he  rose ; 
A  score  of  pikes,  with  each  a  wound, 
Bore  down  and  pinn'd  him  to  the  ground  ; 
But  still  his  struggling  force  he  rears, 
'Gainst  hacking  brands  and  stabbing  spears; 
Thrice  from  assailants  shook  him  free, 
Once  gain'd  his  feet,  and  twice  his  knee, 
By  tenfold  odds  oppress'd  at  length, 
Despite  his  struggles  and  his  strength, 
He  took  a  hundred  mortal  wounds, 
As  mute  as  fox  'mongst  mangling  hounds ; 
And  when  he  died,  his  parting  groan 
Had  more  of  laughter  than  of  moan! 
• — They  gaz'd,  as  when  a  lion  dies, 
And  hunters  scarcely  trust  their  eyes, 
But  bend  their  weapons  on  the  slain, 
Lest  the  grim  king  should  rouse  again! 
Then  blow  and  insult  some  renew'd, 
And  from  the  trunk,  the  head  had  hew'd, 
But  Basil's  voice  the  deed  forbade ; 
A  mantle  o'er  the  corse  he  laid  : — 
"  Fell  as  he  was  in  act  and  mind, 
He  left  no  bolder  heart  behind : 
Then  give  him,  for  a  soldier  meet, 
A  soldier's  cloak  for  windingsheet." 


CANTO  VI.]  ROKEBY.  56? 


No  more  of  death  and  dying  pang, 

No  more  of  trump  and  bugle  clang, 

Though  through  the  sounding  woods  there  come 

Banner  and  bugle,  trump  and  drum, 

Arm'd  with  such  pow'rs  as  well  had  freed 

Young  Redmond  at  his  utmost  need, 

And  back'd  with  such  a  band  of  horse, 

As  might  less  ample  pow'rs  enforce; 

Possess'd  of  ev'ry  proof  and  sign 

That  gave  an  heir  to  Mortham  s  line. 

And  yielded  to  a  father's  arms 

>     image  of  his  Edith's  charms, — • 

Mortham  is  come,  to  hear  and  see 

Of  this  strange  morn  the  history. 

What  saw  he  ? — not  the  church's  floor, 

Cumber  d  with  .lead  and  stain'd  with  gore, 

What  heard  he  ?  not  the  clam'rous  crowd, 

That  shout  their  gratulations  loud : 

Redmond  he  saw  and  heard  alone, 

Clasp'd  him,  and  sobb'd,  "  My  son,  my  son"— 


This  chanc'd  upon  a  summer  morn. 

When  yellow  wav'd  the  heavy  corn : 

But  when  brown  August  o'er  the  hind 

Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  busy  band, 

A  gladsome  sight  the  silvan  road 

From  Eglistone  to  Mortham  show'd, 

A  while  the  hardy  rustic  leaves 

The  task  to  bind  and  pile  the  sheaves, 

And  maids  their  sickles  fling  aside, 

To  gaze  on  bridegroom  and  on  bride, 

And  childhood's  wond'rins;  group  draws  near, 

And  from  the  gleaner's  hand  the  ear 

Drojps,  while  she  folds  them  for  a  prav'r 

And  blessing  on  the  lovely  pair. 

"Twas  then  the  Maid  of  Rokeby  gave 

Her  plighted  troth  to  Redmond  brave ; 


568  KOKEBT.  [CANTO  VI 

And  Teesdale  can  remember  yet 
How  Fate  to  Virtue  paid  her  debt, 
And,  for  their  troubles,  bade  them  prove 
A  lengthen' d  life  of  peace  and  love. 


Time  and  Tide  had  thus  their  sway, 
Yielding,  like  an  April  day, 
Smiling  noon  foi  sullen  morrow, 
Years  of  joy  for  hours  of  sorrow  I 


BALLADS, 
LYRICAL    PIECES, 

AND 

SONGS. 


GLENFINLAS, 


LORD  RONALD'S  CORONACH. 

[The  tradition,  upon  which  the  following  stanzas  are  founded, 
runs  thus:  While  two  Highl  ,nd  hunters  were  passing  the  night  in 
a  solitary  bothy  (a  hut,  built  for  the  purpose  of  hunting,)  and 
making  merry  nver  their  venison  aud  whisky,  one  of  them  ex- 
pressed a  wii-h,  that  they  had  pretty  Usses,  lo  complete  their  party. 
The  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  two  beautiful  voting  wo- 
men, habited  in  green,  entered  the  hut,  dancing  and  singing.  One 

particularly  to  him,  to  leave  the  hut:  the  other  remained,  and, 
suspicious  of  the  fair  seducers,  continued  to  phiy  upon  a  trump,  or 
Jew's  harp,  some  strain,  cons  -entteJ  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  Day  at 
length  came,  and  the  temptress  v  inished.  Searching  in  the  forest, 
he  found  ihe  bones  oi  his  unfortunate  triend  ;  who  had  been  torn, 
to  pieces  and  devoured  by  the  tiend.  into  «  hose  toils  he  had  fallen. 
The  place  was  from  thence  called,  The  Gtenufthe  Green  Women.] 


u  For  them  thu  viewless  forms  of  air  obey, 
Thfdr  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair ; 

They  kuow  what  spiiit  brews  the  stormful  day, 
And  heartless  oft,  like  moody  madness,  stare, 

To  see  the  phantom  train  their  secret  work  prepare.' 


"  O  HONE  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie'  !* 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more ! 

O,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 
The  chief  that  never  fear'd  a  foe, 

How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore, 
How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow ! 

Well  can  the  Saxon  widows  tell, 

How,  on  the  Teith's  resounding  shore, 

The  boldest  Lowland  warriors  fell, 
As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  you  bore. 

*  O  hone  a  ritf  signifies—"  Alas  for  the  prince,  or  chief." 


57'2  LORD  RONALD'S 

But  o'er  his  hills,  on  festal  day, 

How  bla/.'d  Lord  Ronald's. Beltane  tree; 

While  youths  and  maids  the  light  strathspey 
So  nimbly  danc'd,  with  Highland  glee. 

Cheer'd  by  the  strength  of  Ronald's  shell, 
E'en  age  forgot  his  treases  hoar  ; 

But  now  the  loud  lament  we  swell, 
O,  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more  ! 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came, 
The  joys  of  Ronald's  hajl  to  find, 

And  chase  with  him  the  dark  brown  game 
That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

'Twas  Moy;  whom,  in  Columba's  isle, 
The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found, 

As,  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while, 
He  wak'd  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known, 
Which  wanu'ring  spirits  shrink  to  hear ; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone, 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 

For  there,  'tis  said,  in  mystic  mood, 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold, 

And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud, 

That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 

O  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 

And  scour'd  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait,  their  sports  to  aid, 

To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board : 
Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid 

Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 
Three  summer  days,  through  brake  and  dell. 

Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew; 
And  still,  when  dewy  evening  fell, 

The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 
In  grey  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

The  solitary  cahin  stood, 


573 


Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook, 

Which  murmurs  through  that  lonely  wood. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 

Steep'd  heathy  bank,  and  mossy  stone. 

The  moon,  half-hid  in  silv'ry  flakes, 
Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 

Quiv'ring  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes, 
And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 

Now  in  their  hut,  in  social  guise, 
Their  sylvan  fare  the  chiefs  enjoy; 

And  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 
As  many  a  pledge  he  quaffs  to  Moy. 

— "  AVhat  lark  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high? 

What,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss, 
Her  panting  breath,  and  melting  eye? 

**  To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades, 
This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 

The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids, 
Th«  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 

"  Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart. 
And  dropp'd  the  tear,  and  heaved  the  sigh: 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art, 
Beneatli  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 

"  But  thou  may'st  teach  that  guardian  fair, 
While  far  with  Mary  I  am  Hown, 

Of  othei-  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 
And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

"  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shalt  see 

The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle, 
Unmindful  of  her  charge  aud  me, 

Hang  on  thy  notes,  'twixt  tear  and  smile. 

"Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale, 

All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough, 

Will  good  St  Gran's  rale  prevail. 

Stern,  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow  ?" — 


574  LORD  RONALD'S 

— "  Since  Enrick's  fight,  since  Morna's  death. 

No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise, 
Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 

Or  yielding  kiss,  or  melting  eyes. 

"  E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  woe, 
Where  sunk  my  hopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  hade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  How, 
On  me  the  seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

"  The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heav'n, 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  woe, 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy,  was  giv'n — 
The  gift,  the  future  ill  to  know. 

"  The  hark  thou  saw'st,  yon  summer  morn, 

So  gaily  part  from  Oban's  bay, 
My  eye  beheld  her  dash'd  and  torn, 

Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

"  Thy  Fergus  too — thy  sister's  son, 

Thou  saw'st,  with  pride,  the  gallant's  pow'r, 

As  marching  'gainst  the  Lord  of  Downe, 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

"  Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans*  wave, 
As  down  Benvoirlich's  side  they  wound, 

Heard' st  but  the  pii.roch,  answ'ring  brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 

"  I  heard  the  groans,  I  mark'd  the  tears, 

I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore, 
When  on  the  serried  Saxon  spears 

He  pour'd  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

"  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee, 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss, — 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee  ! 

"I  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow; 

I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry  ; 
The  corpse-lights  dance — they're  gone,  and  now — ! 

No  more  is  giv'n  to  gifted  eye  !'"— 

»  Tartara— The  full  Highland  dress,  made  of  the  cheqnered  stag 
to  termed. 


CORONACH.  575 

'        "  Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary  dreams, 

Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour ! 
Say,  should  we  scorn  joy's  transient  beams, 

Because  to-morrow  s  storm  may  lour  ? 

"  Or  false,  or  sooth,  thy  words  of  woe, 
Clangillian's  chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear ; 

His  blood  shall  hound  at  rapture's  glow, 
Though  doom'd  to  stain  the  Saxon  spear. 

"  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell, 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew." — 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  chief  farewell, 
But  call'd  his  dogs,  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  return'd  each  hound ; 

In  rush'd  the  rousers  of  the  deer ; 
They  howl'd  in  melancholy  sound, 

Then  closely  couch  beside  the  Seer. 

No  Ronald  yet ;  though  midnight  came, 
And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams, 

As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  flame, 

He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quiv'ring  gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears, 
And  sudden  cease  their  moaning_howl; 

Close  press'd  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  fears 
By  shiv'ring  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouch'd,  the  harp  began  to  ring. 

As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door; 
And  shook  responsive  ev'ry  string, 

As  light  a  footstep  press  d  the  floor. 

And,  by  the  watch-fire's  glimm'ring  light, 
Close  by  the  Minstrel's  side  was  seen 

An  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright, 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  ^een. 

All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem ; 

Chill'd  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam, 

She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 
With  maiden  blush  she  softly  said, 

O  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 


?6  LORD  RONALD'S 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moon-light  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green : 

"  With  her  a  chief  in  Highland  pride 
His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 

The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side, 
Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow  ?" 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  and  who  are  they?" 
All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied  : 

"  And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  raj- 
Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side  ?" 

"  Where  wild  Loch  Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isla 

Our  father's  tow'rs  o'erhang  her  side, 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"  To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer, 

Our  woodland  course  this  morn  we  bore, 

And  haply  met,  while  wand'ring  here, 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

"  O  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair, 
Whom,  loit'ring  in  the  woods,  I  lost ; 

Alone  I  dare  not  venture  there, 

Where  walks,  they  say,  the  shrieking  ghost/ 

"  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there ; 

Then,  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  pray'r, 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortals  sleep." 
"  O  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 

Guide  a  lone  wand'rer  on  her  way ! 
For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake, 

And  reach  my  father's  tow'rs  ere  day." 

"  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave  bead, 

And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say ; 
Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  reed  : 

So  shall  we  safely  wind  our  way." 

"  O  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul ! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 


577 


"  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire, 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy, 

When  gaily  rung  thy  raptur'd  lyre, 
To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye." 

Wild  star'd  the  Minstrel's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 

And  quick  his  colour  went  and  came, 
As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

"  And  thou  !  when  by  the  blaz'ng  oak 
I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resigned, 

Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke, 
Or  sail'd  ye  on  the  midnight  wind  ! 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line 

Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood, 
Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

He  mutter'd  thrice  St  Oran's  rhyme, 
And  thrice  St  Pillan's  pow'rful  prayer ; 

Then  turn'd  him  to  the  eastern  clime, 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind ; 

And  loud,  and  high,  and  strange,  they  rung, 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 

Tall  wax'd  the  Spirit's  ait'ring  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell,  away  she  flew. 

Rain  beats,  liail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear: 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew ; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  wav'd  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale, 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise ; 

High  o'er  the  Minstrel  s  head  they  sail, 
And  die  amid  the  northern  sk:es. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood, 
As  ceas'd  the  more  than  mortal  yell ; 

2  B 


578  EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN. 

And,  spattering  foul,  a  shower  of  blood 
Upon  the  hissing  firebrands  fell. 

Next,  dropp'd  from  high  a  mangled  arm; 

The  fingers  straiu'd  an  half-drawn  blade  : 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm, 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head,  in  battling  field, 

Stream'd  the  proud  crest  of  high  Benmore ; 

That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield, 
Which  dy'd  the  Teith  with  Saxon  gore. 

Woe  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills  ! 

Woe  to  Gienfinlas'  dreary  glen ! 
There  never  son  of  Albiu's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter  s  shaft  agen  ! 

E'en  the  tir'd  pilgrim's  burning  feet 

At  noon  shall  shun  that  shell' ring  den. 
Lest,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 

The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 
And  we — behind  the  chieftain's  shield, 

No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell ; 
None  leads  the  people  to  the  field — 

And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

O  hone  a  rie'!  O  hone  a  rie'! 

The  i  .'ide  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree  ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more » 


THE 

EYE    OF    SAINT   JOHN. 

THE  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day, 

He  spurr'd  his  courser  on, 
Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky  way 

That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  we:it  not  with- the  bold  Buccleuch, 
His  banner  broad  to  rear ; 


EVE  OP  SAINT  JOHN.  579 

Ho  went  not  'gainst  th"  English  yew, 
To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack*  was  brac'd,  and  his  helmet 
was  lac'd, 

And  his  vaunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore  ; 
At  his  saddle-gerthe  was  a  good  steel  sperthe, 

Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 

The  Baron  return'd  in  three  days'  space, 

And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour; 
Aud  weary  was  his  courser  s  pace, 

As  he  reach'd  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor 

Ran  red  v,-ith  English  blood; 
Where  the  Douglas  true,  and  the  bold  Buccleuch, 

'Gainst  keen  lord  Evers  stood. 

Yet  was  his  helmet  hack'd  and  hew'd, 

His  acton  pierc  d  and  tore  ; 
His  axe  and  his  dagger  with  blood  embru'd, 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

He  lighted  at  the  Chapellage, 

He  held  him  close  and  still ; 
And  he  whirled  thrice  for  his  little  foot-page, 

His  name  was  English  Will. 

"  Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page ; 

Come  hither  to  my  knee ; 
Thou  art  young,  and  tender  of  age, 

I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"  Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen, 

And  look  thou  tell  me  true ! 
Since  I  from  Smaylho'nie  tow'r  have  been, 

What  did  thy  Ldy  do?" 

"  My  lady,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely  light, 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold ; 

For,  from  height  to  height,  the  beacons  bright 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 

"  The  bittern  clamour'd  from  the  moss, 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill ; 

*  The  plate-jack  i«  coat  armour;  the  vaunt-brace,  or  wam-brac^ 
Bimour  for  the  body ;  the  sperthe,  a  battle-**.!. 


580 


EVE  OF  SAINT  JOillV. 


Yet  the  craggy  pathway  sho  did  cross, 
To  the  eiry  beacon  hill. 

"  I  watch'd  her  steps,  and  silent  came 

Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone ; 
No  watchman  stood  by  the  dreary  flame ; 

It  burned  all  alone. 

"  The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight, 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,  by  Mary's  might !  an  armed  Knight 

Stood  by  the  lonely  name. 

"  And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 

Did  s'peak  to  my  lady  there  ; 
But  the  rain  fell  fast,  and  Toud  blew  the  blast, 

And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

"  The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair, 

And  the  mountain  blast  was  still, 
As  again  I  watch'd  the  secret  pair, 

On  tne  lonesome  beacon  hill. 

"  And  I  heard  her  name  ir,  the  midnight  hour, 

And  name  this  holy  eve ; 
And  say,  '  Come  this  "night  to  thy  Jady's  bower- 

Ask  no  bold  Baron's  leave. 

"  '  He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buccleuch ; 

His  lady  is  all  alone; 
The  door  she'll  undo  to  her  knight  so  true, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St  John.' 

" '  I  cannot  come  ;  I  must  not  come ; 

I  dare  not  come  to  thee ; 
On  the  eve  of  Saint  John  I  must  wander  alone : 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.' 

"  '  Now,  out  on  thee,  faint-hearted  knight ! 

Thou  should'st  not  say  me  nay; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and  when  lovers  meet, 

Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

And  I'li  chain  the  blood-hound,  and  the  warder 

shall  not  sound. 
And  rushes  shall  be  strew'd  on  the  stair ; 


EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN. 


581 


So,  by  the  black  rood-stone,*  and  by  holy  St  John, 
I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  to  be  there  T 

u '  Though  the  blood-hound  be  mute,  and  the  rush 

beneath  my  foot, 

And  the  warder  his  bu^le  should  not  blow, 
Yet  there  sleepeth  a  priest  in  the  chamber  to  the 

east, 
And  my  foot-step  he  would  know.' 

"  '  O  fear  not  the  priest,  who  sleepeth  to  the  east ! 

For  to  Dryburgli  the  way  he  has  ta'en; 
And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do  pass, 

For  the  soul  of  a  kiiight  that  is  slayne.' 

"  He  turn'd  him  around,  and  grimly  he  frown'd ; 
Then  he  laugh' d  right  scornfully — 
He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul  of  that 

knight, 
May  as  well  say  mass  for  me. 

44  *  At  the  lone  midnight  hour,  when  bad  spirits 
have  pow'r, 

In  thy  chamber  will  I  be.' — 
With  that  he  was  gone,  and  my  lady  left  alone, 

And  no  more  did  I  see." — 

Then  changed,  I  trow,  was  that  bold  Baron's  brow, 
From  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high ; 

M  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight  thou  hast 

MB, 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die  !" 

"  His  arms  shone  full  bright,  in  the  beacon's  red 
light: 

His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue  ; 
On  his  shield  was  a  hound,  in  a  silver  leash  bound, 

And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew." 

"  Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot-page, 

Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me  ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold,  and  low  laid  in  the  mould, 

All  under  the  Eildon-tree."'f 

*  The  blark-rood  of  Melrose  was  a  crucifix  of  black  marble,  and 
of  superior  sanctity. 

t  Kiiilon-trev  is  said  to  be  the  spot  where  Thomas  the  Rhymer 
uttered  his  prophecua. 


582  E*E  OF  SAINT  JOHN. 

"  Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord  ! 

For  I  heard  her  name  his  name ; 
And  that  lady  bright,  she  called  the  knight, 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame." 

The  bold  Baron's  brow  then  changed,  I  trow, 

From  high  blood- red  to  pale — 
"  The  grave  is  deep  and  dark — and  the  corpse  is 
stiff  and  starTc— 

So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

"  Where  fair  Tweed  flows  round  holy  Melrose, 

And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain, 
Full  three  nights  ago>  by  some  secret  foe, 

That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"  The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 
And  the  wild  winds  drowned  the  name ; 

For  the  Dryburgh  bells  ring,  and  the  white  monks 

do  sing, 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame  P* 

He  pass'd  the  court^gate,  and  he  op'd  the  tow'r 

grate, 

And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair 
To  the  bartizan- seat,  where,  with  maids  that  on 

her  wait, 
He  found  his  lady  fair. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood ; 

Look'd  over  hill  and  dale  ; 
Over  Tweed  s  fair  flood,  and  Mertoun's  wood, 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 

*'  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright !" 

"  Now  hail,  thou  Baron  true  ! 
What  news,  what  news,  from  Ancram  fight  ? 

What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch  ?" 

"  The  Ancram  Moor  is  red  with  gore, 

For  many  a  southern  fell ; 
And  Buccleuch  has  charged  us,  evermore 

To  watch  our  beacons  well." 

The  lady  blush' d  red,  but  nothing  she  said ; 
Nor  added  the  Baron  a  word : 


EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN.  583 

Then  she  steppM  down  the  stair  to  her  chamber  fair, 
And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 

In  sleep  the  lady  mourn'd,  and  the  Baron  toss'd 
and  turn'd, 

And  oft  to  himself  he  said — • 

"  The  -worms  around  him  creep,  and  his  bloody     - 
grave  is  deep  .... 

It  cannot  give  up  the  dead  !" 
It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bell, 

The  night  was  well  nigh  done, 
When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  Baron  fell, 

On  the  eve  of  good  St  John. 

The  lady  look'd  through  the  chamber  fair, 

By  the  light  of  a  dying  ttanie  ; 
And  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  stood  there — 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame ! 

"  Alas  !  away,  away  !"  she  cried, 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  !" 
"  Lady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side ; 

But,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 

"  By  Eildon-tree,  for  long  nights  three, 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain ; 
The  mass  and  the  death-pray'r  are  said  for  me, 

But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

"  By  the  Baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair  strand, 

Most  foully  slain  I  fell ; 
And  my  restless  sprite  on  the  beacon's  height, 

For  a  space  is  doom'd  to  dwell. 

"  At  our  trysting-place,*  for  a  certain  space 

I  must  wander  to  and  fro  ; 
But  I  had  not  had  pow'r  to  come  to  thy  bow'r, 

Had'st  thou  not  conjur'd  me  so." 

Love  master' d  fear — her  brow  she  cross' d ; 

"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  speu  ? 
And  art  thou  sav'd,  or  art  thou  lost  f 

The  Vision  shook  his  head  ! 

w  Who  spilleth  life,  shall  forfeit  life 
So  bid  thy  lord  believe  : 

*  Trysting-place—  Place  of  rendezvous. 


584  CADYOW  CASTLB. 

That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above, 

This  awful  sign  receive." 
He  laid  liis  left  palm  on  an  oaken  beam; 

His  right  upon  her  haad  : 
The  lady  shrunk,  and  fainting  sunk, 

For  it  scorch' d  like  a  tiery  brauu. 
The  sable  score,  of  fingers  four.    ^ 

Remains  on  that  board  impress  d; 
And  for  evermore  that  lady  wore 

A  cov'riug  on  her  wrist. 
There  is  a  Nun  in  Dryburgh  bower. 

Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun : 
There  is  a  Monk  in  Melrose  tower, 

He  speaketh  word  to  none. 
That  Nun,  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day. 

That  Monk,  who  speaks  to  none — 
That  Nun  was  Smaylho'me's  Lady  gay, 

That  Monk  the  bold  Baron, 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 

ADDRESSED  TO 
THE  RIOHT  HONOURABLE 

LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 

fin  detailing  the  death  of  the  regent  Murray,  which  is  made  the 
•ubiect  of  "he  following  ballad,  it  would  be  injustice  to  my  reader 
?o  use  other  words  than  those  of  Dr  Robertson,  whose  account  of 
that  memoraMe  event  forms  a  beautiful  piece  of  historical  painting. 

«  \SnUtm,  of  Uothwel.haugh  was  the  person  who  committed 
this  "art  aVous  action.  He  had  been  condemned  to  death  soon 
after  the  battle  o.  Langside.  as  we  have  already  rri  tod,  and  .owed 


r  impre*!,,  on  hi,,,  than  the  bcne.it  he  had  re- 
ceived. an  ron,  that  moment  he  vowed  to  be  r.venfed  of  ihe  ie- 
tent  Party  r;..'e  string,  hened  and  inflamed  ins  private  resent- 
ment. HisYinsmeo,  the  Hamilton,  »,,,,l,,uded  the  enterprise. 
The  nrixims  of  that  aire  justilied  the  most  desperate  course  be 
couldTuke  to  „{,,'  i,7veW^»ce.  He  followed  tl.e  re«.it  for  some 
time  and  watched  for  an  opportunity  to  strike  the  blow.  H 
•ISvedC  at  last,  to  wait  till  his  enemy  should  arrive  at  Linl»tSiao», 


CADYOW  CASTLE.  585 

through  which  he  was  to  pass,  in  hi*  way  from  Stirling  to  Edin- 
burgh. He  took  his  stand  in  a  wooden  ^.iliory,  which  had  a  win- 
dow to  war  Is  the  street ;  spread  a  feather-bed  on  the  floor,  tu  Inn 
der  the  n  rise  of  his  feet  from  being  heard  ;  him,;  up  a  Mack  clot) 
behind  him,  that  his  shadow  might  not  be  observed  from  without ; 
and,  afctr  all  thi«  preparation,  culnruy  expected  the  regent's  ap- 
proach, who  ha.'  lodged,  during  the  ni-jbt,  in  a  house  not  far  dis- 
tant. Some  in  .milli-t  information  of  the  danger,  win.  h  threaten- 
ed him,  hail  ber.-n  cnnveved  to  ihe  regent,  an  I  he  paid  »o  much  re- 
g.ird  to  it,  that  he  resolved  to  return  by  the  same  gate  through 
which  he  had  entered,  and  to  fetch  a  compass  round  the  town. 
Hut,  as  the  crowd  ab  »u'.  the  gate  was  gieat,  and  he  himself  unac- 
quaiute  I  with  fear,  he  proceeded  directly  along  the  street;  and  the 
thrim_'  of  people  obliging  him  to  move  very  slowly,  gave  the 
assassin  time  to  take  so  true  an  aim,  that  he  shot  him,  with  a 
liiiglc  i.ullet,  through  the  lower  part  of  his  belly,  and  killed  the 
horse  of  a  geuilemtn,  who  rode  o<.  hi*  other  side.  His  followers 
iustamlv  endeavoured  to  bie.ik  iuto  the  house,  whence  the  ir-ow 
had  come;  but  they  found  t'm  <lonr  strongly  barricaded,  an  I,  be- 
fore it  could  be  forced  o:xm.  Hamilton  had  mounted  a  fleet  horse, 
which  stood  ready  for  him  at  *  b  ick  passage,  and  was  ^ot  far  be- 
yond their  reii-h.  The  regent  died  the  same'night  of  his  wouud."— 
Uutuiy  of  Scotland,  book  v.] 

WHEN  princely  Hamilton's  abode 

Ennobl'd  C  idyow's  Gothic  tow'rs, 
The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flow'd. 

And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 

So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 
And  echo'd  light  the  dancer's  bound, 

As  mirth  and  music  cheer'd  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  tow'rs,  in  ruins  laid, 

And  vaults,  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 
Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade, 

Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still,  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame, 

You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale, 
And  tune  my  harp,  of  Border  frame, 

On  the  wild  bauka  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes,  canst  turn, 

To  draw  oblivion's  pail  aside, 

And  mark  the  loug  forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid  !  at  thy  command. 
Again  the  crumbled  halls  shall  rise  ; 

Lo  !  as  on  Evan's  banks  we  suirid. 
The  past  returns — the  prese.it  uies. — 


586  CAPYOW  CASTLE. 

Where  \vitli  the  rock's  wood-cover' d  side 
Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green. 

Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride, 

And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between  : 

Where  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagg  d  with  thorn  and  tangling  sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force, 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night — the  shade  of  keep  and  spirt 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream. 

And  ti\  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 
Is  chequering  the  moon-light  beam. 

Fades  slow  their  light ;  the  east  is  grey; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tow  r; 
Steeds  snort ;  uncoupl'd  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  inerry  hunters  quit  the  bow'r. 

The  draw-bridgo  falls — they  hurry  out — 
Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain, 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  route 

Urge  the  shy  steed,  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop,  the  Chief  rode  on  : 
His  shouting  merry-men  throng  behind; 

The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roe-bucks  bound, 
The  startling  red-deer  scuds  the  plain ; 

For,  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior  sound 
Has  rous'd  their  mountain  haunts  again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 

Whose  Ijmbs  a  thousand  years  have  worn, 

What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale, 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealing  horn? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chace, 

That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 
Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race, 

The  Mountain  Bull  comes  thund'ring  on. 

Fierce,  on  the  hunters'  quiver'd  band, 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow, , 


fc      CADYOW  CASTLE.  587 

Spurns,  -with  black  hoof  and  horn,  the  sand, 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  ot'  snow. 

Aim'd  well,  the  chieftain's  lance  Las  flown; 

Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies ; 
His  roar  is  sunk  in  hollow  groan — 

Sound,  merry  huntsmen  !  sound  the  pryse  !* 
"Tis  noon — against  the  knotted  oak 

The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear ; 
Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke, 

Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  mark'd  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  miss'd  his  eye  the  boldest  man, 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"  Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare  ?** 

Stern  Claud  replied,  with  dark'ning  face, 
(Grey  Pasley's  haughty  lord  was  he) 

"At  merry  feast,  or  buxom  chace, 
No  more  the  warrrior  shalt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set.  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foam, 

When  to  his  hearths,  in  social  glee, 

The  war-worn  soldier  turn'd  him  home. 

"  There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 

His  Marg'ret,  beautiful  and  mild, 
Sate  in  her  bow'r,  a  pallid  rose, 

And  peaceful  nurs'd  her  new-born  child. 

"0  change  accurs'd  !  past  are  those  days: 
False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 

And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze. 
Ascends  destruction's  volum'd  name. 

"What  sheeted  phantom  wanders  wild, 

Where  mountain  Eske  through  woodland  flowi, 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child — 
Oh,  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose  ? 

•  Pryte — The  note  blown  a:  the  death  of  the  jame. 


588  CADYOW  CASTLE. 

"  The  wilder' d  trav'ller  sees  her  plid 
And  hears  lier  feeble  voice  with  awe — - 

'  Revenge,'  she  cries,  '  on  Murray's  pride  ! 
And  woe  for  injur'd  Bothwellhaugh  !' " 

He  ceas'd — and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  Chief, 
And  half  unsheath'd  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream,  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong,  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed ; 

Whose  cheek  is  pale,  whose  eye-balls  glare, 
As  one,  some  vision'd  sight  that  saw, 

Whose  hands  are  bloody,  loose  his  hair? — 
— "Tis  he  !  'tis  he  !  'tis  Bothwellhaugh  ! 

From  gory  selle,*  and  reeling  steed, 

Sprung  the  fierce  horseman  with  a  bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed, 
He  dash'd  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear, 
In  good  green- wood,  the  bugle  blown ; 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear, 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughter'd  quarry  proudly  trode, 
At  dawning  morn,  o'er  dale  and  down, 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 

Through  old  Linlithgow's  crowded  town 

"  From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side, 

In  haughty  triumph,  marched  he, 
While  Knox  relax'd  his  bigot  pride. 

And  smil'd,  the  trait'rous  pomp  to  see. 

"  But,  can  stern  Pow'r,  with  all  his  vaunt, 
Or  Pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 

The  settled  heart  of  Vengeance  daunt, 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair? 

ed  by  Spencer  and  other  ancient 


CADTOW  CASTLE.  589 

"  With  hackbut  bent,*  my  secret  stand 
Dark  as  the  purpos'd  deed,  I  chose, 

And  mark'd,  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Troop'd  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear, 

Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van  ; 
And  clash' d  their  broad-swords  in  the  rear, 

The  wild  Macfarlanes'  pluided  clan. 

"  Glencairn  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh, 

Obsequious  at  their  Regent's  rein, 
And  haggard  Lindesay's  iron  eye, 

That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

"  Mid  pennon'd  spears,  a  steely  grove. 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high ; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"  From  the  rais'd  visor's  shade,  his  eye, 
Dark-rolling,  glanc'd  the  ranks  along, 

And  bis  steel  truncheon,  wav'd  on  high, 
Seem'd  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 

"  But  yet  his  sadden'd  brow  confess'd 

A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe ; 
Some  fiend  was  whisp'ring  in  his  breast, 

*  Beware  of  injur'd  Bothwellhaugh  !* 

"  The  death-shot  parts — the  charger  springs- 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar ! — 

And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings — 
— Rings  on  the  ground,  to  rise  no  more. 

"  What  joy  the  raptur'd  youth  can  feel, 

To  hear  her  love  the  lov'd  one  tell, 
Or  he,  who  broaches  on  his  steel 

The  wolf,  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"  But  dearer  to  my  injur'd  eye, 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 
And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy 

To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul. 

"  My  Marg'ret's  spectre  glided  near; 
With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw ; 

*  Hackbut  ter.t— Gun-cocked. 


590  THE  GREY  BROTHER. 

And  shriek'd  in  his  death-deifen'd  ear,^ 
'  Remember  injur'd  Bothwellhaugh  !' 

"Then  speed  thce,  noble  Chatlerault ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  banner'd  tree  ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clyde, dale  bow  !— 

Murray  is  fall'n,  and  Scotland  free." 

Vaults  ev'ry  warrior  to  his  steed  ; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim — • 
"  Murray  is  fall'n,  and  Scotland  fieed  ! 

Couch,  Arran  !  couch  thy  spear  of  flame  V 
But,  see  !  the  Minstrel  vision  fails— 

The  glimm'ring  spears  are  seen  no  more  ; 
The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales, 

Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 
For  the  loud  bugle,  pealing  high, 

The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale, 
And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 

The  banner'd  tow'rs  of  Evandale. 
For  chiefs,  intent  on  bloody  deed, 

And  Vengeance,  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 
Lo  !  high-born  Beauty  rules  the  steed, 

Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 
And  long  may  Peace  and  Pleasure  own 

The  maids,  who  list  the  Minstrel's  tale; 
Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known 

On  the  fair  banks  of  Evandale. 


THE  GREY  BROTHER. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

CThe  tradition,  npon  which  tvis  fragment  is  founded,  rcgarifca 
house,  upon  the  bir.my  nf  Gihnerto.i.  near  Linrade,  in  Mid 
Lothian.  This  bulletins,  now  called  Gilmerton-Grange.  was  for- 
merly n;imed  Burudale,  from  the  ftilloiviiifc  tragic  adventure.  n'« 

barony  of  Gilmertou  belonged,  of  y  re,  to  a  gentleman,  named 
Hero...  who  had  one  beautiful  da.ighter  Thi,  young  lady  was 
seduced  by  the  abbot  of  Newbottle,  a  richly  endowed  abbey,  upon 
the  banks  of  the  South  Ksk.  now  a  seat  of  the  marquis  ot  l,"thian. 
Heron  cam.-  to  the  kunwledtre  of  this  circumstance,  and  learned, 
also,  that  the  lovers  carried  ou  their  guilty  intercourse  by  tb< 


THE  GREY  BROTHER.  591 

contrirance  of  the  lady's  nurse,  who  lived  at  this  honse,  of  G'lmer- 
ton-Grange,  or  Burnaal«.  He  formed  a  resolution  of  bloody  ven- 
geance, undeterred  by  the  svippost  d  sanctity  of  the  clerical  charac- 
ter, or  by  the  monger  claim*  of  natunl  affe.  !ion.  Choosing, 
therefore,  a  dark  and  windy  night-  when  the  objects  of  his  ven- 
geance were  engaged  in  a  stolen  interview,  he  set  tire  to  .1  stack 
of  dried  thorns,  *ii  i  other  combustibles,  which  he  had  caused  to 
be  piled  against  ti>e  hou/w,  ai.J  reduced  ;o  a  pile  of  glowing  ashes 
the  dwell. Mg,  with  all  in  inmates 

THe  scene,  with  which  the  ballad  opens,  was  suggested  by  the 
following  curious  passage,  extracted  from  the  lite  of  A-exauder 
Peden,  one  ot  the  \7'»nderiu;  an  I  pers»c  iteil  -tacher-*  of  the  sect 
of  Cameronians,  .lurinx  the  reign  of  i  har'.es  II.,  an  J  his  successor, 
James.  "  Afoul  the  same  time  he  (PeJen)  came  to  Andrew  y,,i- 
mand's  house,  in  the  parUh  of  Alluway,  in  the  shire  of  Avr,  being 
to  preach  at  iiii;;.t  in  his  barn.  After  he  came  in,  he  halted  a  little, 
leaning  upon  a  ch  .ir-back.  with  his  face  covered  ;  when  he  lifted 
up  I. is  head,  h  s  .id.  •  There  are  i  .  this  hou-e  that  1  have  no,  one 
word  of  salvation  unto  .'  lie  halted  a  l.ttle  i.gaiii  saying,  •  This  is 
strange,  tlia'  the  devil  w\  1  not  go  out,  tltai  we  may  begin  our 
work!'  Then  there  was  a  worn  m  we.it  out,  ill  looked  upuu  al- 
mo-t  a  I  her  life,  and  to  her  living  hour,  t  >r  a  witch,  with  many 
presumption,  ul  the  same.  It  escaped  me,  in  the  f»riner  passages, 
that  John  MuirheaJ  (whom  I  have  often  m.-ntioned;  t  .Id  oie.  that 
when  became  troui  Ireland  to  Galloway,  lie  was  at  f  niiily-warship, 
and  giving  some  notes  upon  the  scri,  i  ure,  ^vlien  a  very  ill-looking 
man  came,  and  s.  ite  Jowu  wi  hin  the  dour,  at  the  back  of  the  Ital- 
ian fpartitioi.  of  the  cr.tta  e:;  immediate  >  lie  halted,  a-id  said, 
'Theie  i>.  some  unhappy  bo  ly  just  now  come  into  this  house.  I 
charge  hid  t"  go  out,  and  nut  «t'<p  my  month  I'  The  person  went 
out,  and  hoi'?ui»ferf  (went  on),  yet  he  jtu  him  neither  come  in  nor 
go  out"—  The  Lift  ant  Pr.nttecirt  uf  Xr  ^Ifjr,  nifer  Pe<fen,  lot* 
Minuter  of  the  tiupet  at  flew  Glenluce,  in  Galiuway,  part  iL 


THE  Pope  he  was  saying  the  high,  high  mass, 

All  on  saint  Peter's  day, 
With  the  pow'r  to  him  giv'n,  by  the  saints  inheav'n, 

To  wash  men's  sins  aivay. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  blessed  mass, 

And  the  people  kneel'd  around  ; 
And  from  each  man's  soul  his  sins  did  pass, 

As  he  kiss' J  the  holy  ground. 

And  all,  among  the  crowded  throng, 

Was  still,  both  limb  and  tongue. 
While  through  vaulted  roof,  and  ables  .  loof, 

The  holy  accents  rung. 

At  the  holiest  word  he  quiver'd  for  fear, 

And  faulter'd  in  the  souud  — 
And,  when  he  would  the  chalice  rear, 

He  dropp'd  it  on  the  ground. 


592  THE  GREY  BROTHER. 

"  The  breath  of  one,  of  evil  deed, 

Pollutes  our  sacied  day  ; 
He  has  no  portion  in  our  creed, 

No  part  in  what  I  say. 

"  A  being,  whom  no  blessed  word 

To  ghostly  peace  can  bring  ; 
A  wretch,  at  whose  approach  abhorr'd, 

.Recoils  each  holy  thmg. 

"  Up,  up,  unhappy  !  haste,  arise  ! 

My  adjuration  i'ear ! 
I  charge  thee  not  to  stop  my  voice, 

Nor  longer  tarry  here  !" 

Amid  them  all  a  Pilgrim  kneel'd, 

In  gown  of  sackcloth  gray  : 
Far  journeying  from  his  native  field, 

He  first  saw  Rome  that  day. 

For  forty  days  and  nights  so  drear, 

I  ween,  he  had  not  spoke, 
And,  save  with  bread  and  water  clear, 

His  fast  he  ne'er  had  broke. 

Amid  the  penitential  flock, 

Seern'd  none  more  bent  to  pray, 
But,  when  the  Holy  Father  spoke, 

He  rose,  and  went  his  way. 

Again  unto  his  native  land, 

His  weary  course  he  drew, 
To  Lothian's  fair  and  fertile  strand, 

And  Pentland's  mountains  blue. 

His  unblest  feet  his  native  seat, 

Mid  Eske's  fair  woods,  regain ; 
Through  woods  more  fair  no  stream  more  sweet 

Rolls  to  the  eastern  main. 

And  Lords  to  meet  the  Pilgrim  came, 

And  vassals  bent  the  knee  ; 
For  all  mid  Scotland's  chiefs  of  fame, 

Was  none  more  fam'd  than  he. 

And  boldly  for  his  country  still, 
In  battle  he  had  stood, 


THE  GREY  BROTHER.  593 

Aye,  e'en  -when,  on  the  banks  of  Till, 
Her  noblest  jujr'a  iheir  blood. 

Sweet  are  t!-e  paths,  O,  passing  sweet  1 

By  Eske's  fair  streams  that  run, 
O'er  airy  steep,  through  copse  vvood  deep, 

Impervious  to  the  sun. 

There  the  rapt  poet's  step  may  rovev 

And  yield  the  muse  the  day ; 
There  Beauty,  led  by  timid  Love, 

May  shun  the  tell-tale  ray ; 

from  that  fair  dome,  where  suit  is  paid 

By  blast  of  Lugie  free, 
To  Auchenuinn/'s  hazel  glade, 

And  haunted  Woodliouselee. 

Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove, 

And  Hoslin's  rockj  .,.e:i, 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love, 

And  classic  Hawthorndan? 

Yet  never  a  path,  from  day  to  day, 

The  Pilgrim's  footsteps  range, 
Save  but  the  solitary  way 

To  Burndale's  ruined  Grange. 

A  woeful  place  was  that,  I  ween, 

As  sorrow  could  desire ; 
For,  nodding  to  the  fall  was  each  crumbling  wall, 

And  the  roof  wa   «cath'd  with  h're. 

It  fell  upon  a  summer's  eve, 

While,  on  Carnethy'f  head, 
The  last  faint  gleams  of  the  sun's  low  beams 

Had  streak 'd  the  ^i  cy  with  red ; 

And  the  convent  bell  did  vespers  tell, 

Newbottle's  oaks  among, 
And  mingled  with  the  solemn  knell 

Our  Lady's  evening  song  : 
The  heavy  knell,  trc  rlioir's  feint  swell. 

Came  slowly  down  the  v:nil, 
And  on  the  Pilgrim's  ear  they  fell, 

As  his  wonted  path  he  did 'find. 


594 


THE  GREY  BROTHER. 


Deep  sunk  in  thought,  I  ween,  he  was, 

Nor  ever  rais'd  his  eye, 
Until  he  came  to  that  dreary  plate, 

Which  did  all  in  ruins  lie. 

He  gaz'd  on  the  walls,  so  scath'd  with  fire. 

With  many  a  bitter  groan — 
And  there  was  aware  of  a  Grey  Friar, 

Resting  him  on  a  stone. 

"  Now,  Christ  thee  save !"  said  the  Grey  Brother 

"  Some  pilgrim  them  seem'st  to  be ;" 
"But  in  sore  amaze  did  Lord  Albert  gaze, 

Nor  answer  again  made  he. 

"  O  come  ye  from  east,  or  come  ye  from  west, 

Or  bring  relicjues  from  over  the  sea, 
Or  come  ye  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the  divine, 

Or  Saint  John  of  Beverley?" 

"I come  not  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the  divine, 

Nor  bring  reliques  from  over  the  sea ; 
I  bring  but  a  curse  from  our  father,  the  Pope, 

Which  for  ever  will  cling  to  me." 
"  Now,  woeful  Pilgrim,  say  not  so  i 

But  kneel  thee  down  by  me, 
And  shrive  thee  so  clean  of  thy  deadly  sin. 

That  absolved  thou  may'st  be." 

"  And  who  art  thou,  thou  Grey  Brother, 

That  I  should  shrive  to  thee, 

When  he,  to  whom  are  giv'n  the  keys  of  earth  and 
heav'n, 

Has  no  pow'r  to  pardon  me  s" 

"  O  I  am  sent  from  a  distant  clime, 

Five  thousand  miles  away, 
And  all  to  absolve  a  foul,  foul  crime, 

Done  Itere  'twixt  night  and  day." 

The  Pilgrim  kneel' d  him  on  the  sand, 

And  thus  began  Ids  saye — 
When  on  his  neck  an  ice-cold  hand 

Did  that  Grey  Brother  layc. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER  595 

THOMAS  THE   RHYMER. 

IN  HIRES  PARTS. 


fFiw  personages  are  so  renowned  in  tradition  as  Thomas  of 
Erceldoune.  known  by  the  Kpp-llatioii  of  The  R>iymer.  It  is 
agreed,  on  all  haud*,  that  the  residence,  and  probably  the  birth 
place,  of  this  ancient  bard,  was  Krcel.ioune.  a  village  situate  upon 
the  Leadei,  two  miles  above  itsjuiicti  'n  wiih  th-  Tweed.  The 
rniiisot'au  ancient  tower  arestill  pointed  out  as  the  Rhymer's  castle. 

Learmont ;  and  that  the  appellation  ••(  The  Rhymer  was  conferred 
on  him  in  cot  icquence  ->f  his  poetical  coinp-isitions.  There  remains, 
nevertheless,  some  doubt  upon  this  subject. 

We  are  b-tier  able  to  ascertain  the  perio  I,  at  which  Thomas  of 
Erceldoune  lived;  being  the  Litter  end  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
It  cannot  he  doubted,  that  Thomas  nl  Erceldoune  was  a  remarkable 
and  important  person  iu  hiS"Wii  time,  si  ice  very  shortly  after  hi« 
death,  we  find  him  celebrated  JS  a  prophet,  and  as  a  poet  Whether 
he  himielf  madi-  any  pretensions  to  the  first  of  these  characters, 
cr  whether  it  was  gratuitously  conferr-d  upon  him  by  the  credu- 
lity i-f  posterity,  it  seems  difficult  to  decide.  The  pupul  ir  tale 
bears,  that  Thomas  was  carried  off.  ;it  an  early  age,  t"  the  Fairy 
Land,  where  he  acquired  aU  the  knowledge  wuieh  made  him 
afterwards  so  famous.  Alter  seven  yars'  residence  he  was  per- 
mitted to  return  t»  the  enrth,  to  enlighten  and  astonish  his  conn- 
try  men,  b\  his  prophetic  p  wers,  sti  1,  however,  remaining  bound 
to  return  tn  hi*  royal  mistress,  when  she  shoul.l  intimate  her 
pleasure.  Accordingly,  while  Thomas  was  maki  -g  merry  with 
his  friends,  i-i  the  lower  of  Erceldoune,  a  person  came  running  'u, 
and  told.  w.  :h  marks  of  fear  and  astonishment,  that  a  hart  and 
band  had  left  the  neighbouring  forest,  a  id  were  composedly  and 
slowly  p  trading  the  street  of  the  rill  .ge.  The  prophet  instantly 
arose,  left  his  habitation,  and  followed  the  wonderful  animals  to 

The  fol'owing  ballad.  i«  given  frnm  a  copy,  ohtaini"!  from  a  lady, 
residing  not  far  fro.,i  Erreldoune.  .-orrecte;!  and  enlarged  by  one  in 
Mrs  Brown's  MSS  To  this  old  tale  the  author  has  ventured  to 
add  a  Second  Part,  wmsisting  of  a  kind  of  Cento,  from  the  printed 
prophecies  vulgarly  ascribed  to  the  Rhymer;  and  a  Third  Part, 
entirely  mod-rn,  founded  upon  the  traditi  >u  of  his  having  returned 
with  the  hart  and  hiiid,  to  the  Laud  of  Faerie.] 

PART  FIRST. 


TRUE  .Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank ; 

A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e  ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright, 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 

Her  shirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 
Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne ; 


596  THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 

At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane, 
Hang  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas,  he  pull'd  aff  his  cap, 

And  louted  low  down  to  his  knee, — 
"  All  hail,  thou  mighty  queen  of  heaven  ! 

For  thy  peer  on  earth  I  never  did  see  " 
"  O  no,  O  no,  Thomas,"  she  said ; 

"That  name  does  not  helang  to  me; 
I  am  but  the  queen  of  fair  Eltland, 

That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 

"  Harp  and  carp,  Thomas,"  she  said  ; 

"  Harp  and  carp  along  with  me; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I  will  be." 

"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

That  v  eird*  shall  never  danton  me." 
Syne  he  has  kiss'd  her  rosy  lips, 

All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 
"  Now,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,"  she  said ; 

"  True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me ; 
And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 

Through  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  to  be." 
She  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed ; 

She's  ta'en  true  Thomas  up  behind ; 
And  aye,  whene'er  her  bridle  rung, 

The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 
O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on ; 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind; 
Until  they  reach'd  a  desart  wide, 

And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  now,  true  Thomas, 

And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee 
Abide,  and  rest  a  little  space, 

And  I  will  shew  you  ferlies  three. 
"  O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road, 

So  thick  beset  with  thorns  and  briers? — 
That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 

Though  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

•  That  weird,  $c.— That  destiny  ihaU  never  frighten  me. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER.  597 

"  And  see  not  ye  that  braid,  braid  road, 

That  lies  across  that  lily  levcii? — 
That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 

Though  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

"  And  see  not  ye  that  bonny  road, 
That  winds  about  the  fernie  brae? — 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Eltiand, 

Where  thou  and  1  thi.s  night  maun  ga». 

"  But,  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 

\V  hatever  ye  may  hear  or  see 
For,  if  you  speak  word  in  Elflyn  land, 

Ye'll  ne'er  get  back  to  your' am  countrie." 

0  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on. 

And  they  waded  through  rivers  aboon  the  knee, 
And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  and  there  was  nae  starn 
light, 

And  they  waded  through  red  blude  to  the  knee , 
For  a'  the  blude,  that's  shed  on  earth, 

Kins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 
Syne  they  came  on  to  a  garden  green, 

And  she  pu'd  an  apple  frae  a  tree — 
"  Take  this  for  thy  wages,  true  Thomas ; 

It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can  never  lie." 

"  My  tongue  is  mine  ain,"  true  Thomas  said; 
"  A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me  ! 

1  neither  dougnt  to  buy  nor  sell, 
At  fair  or  tryst,  where  I  may  be. 

'  I  dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 

Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye." 
"  Now  hold  thy  peace  !"  the  ladye  said, 

"  P"or,  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be." 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 

And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green ; 
And,  till  seven  years  were  gane  and  past 

True  Thomas  ou  earth  was  never  seen. 


598  THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 

PART  SECOND. 

•LTEREI)    PROM   ANCIENT   PROPHECIES. 

IT  Corspatrick  f  Comes  Patrick),  earl  of  Mar.-h,  but  more  commonly 
taking  his  tn  le  from  his  castle  of  Uui.bar,  acted  a  noted  part  duriua 
the  wars  of  Edward  I.  in  Scotland.  As  Th.  ma,  of  Erreldoun^is 
said  to  have  delivered  to  him  his  f  ,m  us  prophecy  of  king  Alex- 
ander's death,  the  author  has  chosen  to  introduce  him  into  the 
following  ballad.  All  the  prophetic  verses  are  selected  t'rom  Hart's 
A^'ieiS™1  of  the  Rhymer's  predictions  primed  at  Edinburgh 

WHEN  seven  years  were  come  and  gane, 

The  sun  blink'd  fair  on  pool  and  stream ; 
And  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank, 

Like  one  awaken'd  from  a  dream. 
He  heard  the  trampling  of  a  steed, 

He  saw  the  Hash  of  armour  flee, 
And  he  beheld  a  gallant  knight, 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 
He  was  a  stalwart  knight,  and  strong; 

Of  giant  make  he  'pear'd  to  be  : 
He  stirr'd  his  horse,  as  he  were  wode, 

Wi"  gilded  spurs,  of  faushion  free. 

Says—  "  Well  met,  well  met,  true  Thomas! 

borne  uncouth  ferlies  shew  to  me." 
Says — "  Christ  thee  save,  Corspatrick  brave ! 

Thrice  welcome,  good  Dunbar,  to  me  ! 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  Corspatrick  brave, 

And  I  will  shew  thee  curses  three, 
Shall  gar  fair  Scotland  greet  and  grane, 

And  change  the  green  to  the  black  livery. 

"A  storm  shall  roar,  this  very  hour, 
From  Rosse's  Hills  to  Solway  sea," 

"  Ye  lied,  ye  lied,  ye  warlock  hoar  ! 

For  the  sun  shines  sweet  on  fauld  and  lea." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  earlie's  head ; 

He  shew'd  him  a  rock,  beside  the  sea. 
Where  a  king  lay  stiff,  beneath  his  steed,* 

And  steei-dight  iiobies  wip'd  their  e'e. 

•  King  Alexander;  killed  by  a  fill  from  his  horse,  near  King. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMEE.  599 

"  The  ncist  curse  lights  on  Branxton  Hills  : 

By  Flodden's  high  and  heathery  side, 
Shall  wave  a  banner,  red  as  blude, 

And  chieftains  throng  wi'  meikle  pride. 
"  A  Scottish  king  shall  come  full  keen ; 

The  ruddy  lion  beareth  he  : 
A  feather'd  arrow  sharp,  I  ween, 

Shall  make  him  wink  and  warre  to  see. 
"  When  he  is  bloody,  and  all  to  bledde, 

Thus  to^his  men  he  still  shall  say — 
4  For  God's  sake,  turn  ye  back  again, 

^Aud  give  yon  southern  folk  a  fray! 
Why  should  I  lose  the  right  i    mine? 

My  doom  is  not  to  die  this  day.'* 
"  Yet  turn  ye  to  the  eastern  hand, 

And  woe  and  wonder  ye  sail  see ; 
How  forty  thousand  spearmen  stanu, 

Where  yon  rank  river  meets  the  sea. 
"  There  shall  the  lion  lose  the  gylte, 

And  the  libbards  bear  it  clean  away ; 
At  Pinkyn  Cleuch  there  shall  be  spilt 

Much  gentil  blude  that  day." 
"  Enough,  enough,  of  curse  and  ban ; 

Some  blessing  shew  thou  uow  to  me, 
Or,  by  the  faith  o'  my  bodie,"  Corspatrick  said, 

"  Ye  shall  rue  the  day  ye  e'er  saw  me  i" 
•'  The  first  of  blessings  I  shall  thee  shew, 

Is  by  a  barn,  that's  called  of  bread  ;f 
Where  Saxon  men  shall  tine  the  bow, 

And  find  their  arrows  lack  the  head. 
"  Beside  that  hrigg,  out-ower  that  burn, 

Where  the  water  bickereth  bright  and  sheen, 
Shall  many  a  falling  courser  spurn, 

And  knights  shall  die  in  battle  keen. 

»  The  onwtaintv  which  lony  prevailed  in  Scotland  concerning 
tbe  fate  of  James  I  *.,  is  well  known. 

t  One  of  Thomas'!  rhymes,  preserved  by  tradition,  runs  thum: 
"  The  burn  of  br  iii 

Shall  run  Tow  reid.- 

Bannock-burn  is  the  bro,,k  here  meant.    The  S<-nt«  give  the  nam 
cl  MMMOt,  to  a  thick  round  cake  of  unleavened  bread. 


600  THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 

"  Beside  a  headless  cross  of  stone, 

The  libbards  there  shall  lose  the  gree  : 
The  raven  shall  come,  the  erne  shall  go, 

And  drink  the  Saxon  blood  sae  free. 
The  cross  of  stone  they  shall  not  know, 

So  thick  the  corses  there  shall  be." 
"  But  tell  me  now,"  said  brave  Dunbai, 

11  True  Thomas,  tell  now  unto  me, 
"What  man  shall  rule  the  isle  Britain, 

Ev'n  from  the  north  to  the  southern  sea  ? 
"  A  French  queen  shall  bear  the  sou, 

Shall  rule  all  Britain  to  the  sea : 
He  of  the  Bruce' s  blude  shall  come, 

As  near  as  in  the  ninth  degree. 
"  The  waters  -worship  shall  his  race  ; 

Likewise  the  waves  of  the  farthest  sea ; 
For  they  shall  ride  ower  ocean  wide,          ^ 

With  hempen  bridles,  and  horse  of  tree. 


PART  THIRD. 

MODKRN. 

"WHEN  seven  years  more  had  come  and  gone, 

Was  war  through  Scotland  spread, 
And  Ruberalaw  show'd  high  Dunyon 

His  beacon  blazing  red. 
Then  all  by  bonny  Coldingknow, 

Pitch' d  palliouns  took  their  room, 
And  crested  helms,  and  spears  a  rowe, 

Glanc'd  gaily  through  the  broom. 
The  Leader,  rolling  to  the  Tweed, 

Resounds  the  ensenzie  ;* 
They  rous'd  the  deer  from  Caddenhead, 

To  distant  Torwoodlee. 
The  feast  was  spread  in  Ercildoune, 

In  Learmont*s  high  and  ancient  hall ; 

•  Entenzit.— War-cry,  or  gathering  word. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER.  601 

And  there  were  knights  of  great  renown, 
And  ladies,  laced  in  pall. 

Nor  lack'd  they,  while  they  sat  at  dine, 

The  music,  nor  the  tale. 
Nor  goblets  of  the  blood-red  wine, 

Nor  mantling  quaighs*  of  ale. 

True  Thomas  rose,  with  harp  in  hand, 

When  as  the  feast  was  done ; 
(In  rcinstrel  strife,  in  Fairy  Land, 

The  eliin  harp  he  won.) 

Hush'd  were  the  throng,  both  limb  and  tongue, 

And  harpers  for  envy  pale; 
And  armed  lords  lean'd  on  their  swords, 

And  hearken'd  to  the  tale. 
In  numbers  high,  the  witching  tala 

The  prophet  pour'd  along ; 
No  after  bard  might  e'er  avail 

Those  numbers  to  prolong. 

Yet  fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 

Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 
As,  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main, 

A  parted  wreck  appears. 

He  sung  King  Arthur's  table  round : 

The  warrior  of  the  lake ; 
How  courteous  Gawaine  met  the  wound, 

And  bled  for  ladies'  sake. 

Bui  chief,  in  gentle  Tristrem's  praise, 

The  notes  melodious  iwell  ;•(• 
Was  none  excell'd  in  Arthur's  days, 

The  knight  of  Lionelle. 

For  Marke,  his  cowardly  uncle's  right, 

A  venom'd  wound  he  bore  ; 
When  tierce  Morholde  he  slew  in  fight, 

Upon  the  Irish  shore. 

No  art  the  poison  might  withstand j 
No  med'cine  could  be  found, 

*  9""i3>»'-  V^?*™  C..JM,  composocl  of  .tare,  hooped  together 
t  AlluJuig  to  rhomu  the  Khyiuer's  cclebr^lrd  roaaae*  of  Si> 
Trulrem. 

2c 


602  THOMAS  THE  RHYMES. 

Till  lovely  Isolde's  lily  hand 


ill  lovely  Isolde's  lily  ha 
Had  prob'd  the  ranklin 


ig  wound. 

With  gentle  hand  and  soothing  tongue, 

She  bore  the  leech's  part ; 
And,  while  she  o'er  his  sick-bed  hung, 

He  paid  her  with  his  heart. 

O  fatal  was  the  gift,  I  ween ! 

For,  doom'd  in  evil  tide, 
The  maid  must  be  rude  Cornwall's  queen. 

His  cowardly  uncle's  bride. 

Their  loves,  their  woes,  the  gifted  bard 

In  fairy  tissue  wove ; 
Where  lords,  and  knights,  and  ladies  bright, 

In  gay  confusion  strove. 

The  Garde  Joyeuse,  amid  the  tale, 
High  rear'd  its  glittering  head ; 

And  Avalon's  enchanted  vale 
In  all  its  wonders  spread. 

Brengwain  was  there,  and  Segramore, 
And  fiend-born  Merlin's  gramarye ; 

Of  that  fam'd  wizard's  mighty  lore, 
O  who  could  sing  but  he? 

Through  many  a  maze  the  winning  song 

In  changeful  passion  led, 
Till  bent  at  length  the  list'ning  throng 

O'er  Tristrem's  dying  bed. 

His  ancient  wounds  their  scars  expand ; 

With  agony  his  heart  is  wrung : 
O  where  is  Isolde's  lily  hand, 

And  where  her  soothing  tongue  ? 

She  comes,  she  comes  !  like  flash  of  flame 

Can  Overs' footsteps  fly  : 
She  comes,  she  comes  !  she  only  came 

To  see  her  Tristrem  die. 

She  saw  him  die  :  her  latest  sigh 
Join'd  'n  a  kiss  his  parting  breath: 

The  gentlest  pair  that  Britain  bare 
United  are  in  death. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER.  603 

There  paus'd  the  harp  ;  its  ling'ring  sound, 

Died  slowly  on  the  ear ; 
The  silent  guests  still  bent  around, 

For  still  they  seem'd  to  hear. 
Then  woe  bruko  torch  in  unrnwrs  weak 

Nor  ladies  heav'd  alone  the  sigh ; 
But,  half  ashom'd,  the  rugged  cheek 

Did  many  a  gauntlet  dry. 

On  Leader's  stream,  and  Learmont's  tow'r, 

The  mists  of  evening  close; 
In  camp,  in  castle,  or  in  bow'r, 

Each  warrior  sought  repose. 
Lord  Douglas,  in  his  lofty  tent, 

Dream 'd  o'er  the  woeful  tale ; 
When  footsteps  light,  across  the'  bent, 

The  warrior's  ears  assail. 

He  starts,  he  wakes  :— "  What,  Richard,  ho 

Arise,  my  page,  arise  ! 
What  vent'rous  wight,  at  dead  of  night, 

Dare  step  where  Douglas  lies  !" 

Then  forth  they  rushed  :  by  Leader's  tide 

A  selcouth*  sight  they  see — 
A  hart  and  hind  pace  side  by  side, 

As  white  as  snow  on  Fairnalie. 
Beneath  the  moon,  with  gesture  proud, 

They  stately  move  and  slow  : 
Nor  scare  they  at  the  gath'ring' crowd, 

Who  marvel  as  they  go. 

To  Learmont's  tow'r  a  message  sped, 

As  fast  as  page  might  run ; 
And  Thomas  started  from  his  bed, 

And  soon  his  clothes  did  on. 
First  he  woxe  pale,  and  then  woxe  red  • 

Never  a  word  be  spake  but  three  ;— 
"  My  sand  is  run ;  my  thread  is  spun ; 

This  sign  regardeth  me." 

The  Elfin  harp  his  neck  around, 
In  minstrel  guise,  he  hung ; 


604 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER, 


And  on  the  wind,  in  doleful  sound, 
Its  dying  accents  rung. 

Then  forth  he  went ;  yet  turn'd  him  oft 

To  view  his  ancient  hall  ; 
On  the  grey  tow'r,  in  lustre  soft, 

The  autumn  moon-beams  fall. 

And  Leader's  wave?,  like  silver  sheen, 

Danc'd  shimm'iing  in  the  ray : 
In  deep'ning  mass,  at  distance  seen, 

Broad  Soltra  s  mountains  lay. 

"  Farewell,  my  father's  ancient  tow'r ! 

A  long  farewell,"  said  he : 
"  The  scene  of  pleasure,  pomp,  or  pow'r, 

Thou  never  more  shalt  be. 

"  To  Learmont's  name  no  foot  of  earth 

Shall  here  again  belong. 
And  on  thy  hospitable  hearth 

The  hare  shall  leave  her  young. 

"  Adieu  !  Adieu  !"  again  he  cried, 

All  as  he  turn'd  him  roun' — 
"  Farewell  to  Leader's  silver  tide  ! 

Farewell  to  Ercildoune !" 

The  hart  and  hind  approach'd  the  place, 

As  ling'ring  yet  he  stood  ; 
And  there,  before  Lord  Douglas'  face, 

With  them  he  cross'd  the  ilood. 

Lord  Douglas  leap'd  on  his  berry-brown  steed, 
And  spurr'd  him  the  Leader  o'er ; 

But,  though  he  rode  with  lightning  speed, 
He  never  saw  them  more. 

Some  «aid  to  hill,  and  some  to  glen, 
Their  wondrous  course  had  been ; 

But  ne'er  in  haunts  of  living  men 
Again  was  Tnornas  sceii. 


THK  FIRE-KING.  605 

THE   FIRE-KING. 

"The  blessings  of  the  evH  Genii,  which  are  curses,  were  upon 
lum-  Eastern  Jfefi. 

CThis  ballad  was  written  at  the  request  of  MR  LEWIS,  to  be  in. 
«erted  1:1  lus  •'  Tales  of  W-nder."  It  is  the  third  in  i  sei  ies  of  four 
balla  Is,  on  the  subject  nf  Elementary  Spirits.  The  storv  is.  how. 
ever,  partlv  historical :  for  it  is  recorded,  that,  during  the  stlturiM 
of ihf  Latin  kingdom  nf  Jerusalem,  H  kni/ht- tempi  ir,  ca  led  Saint- 
Alban,  de»e  ttd  to  the  Saracens,  and  defeate.l  the  Christians  in 
•"a"/  combats,  .  he  wav  n'"'lv  routed  and  slain,  in  a  conflict 
with  King  Baldwin,  under  the  wall*  of  Jerusalem.] 

BOLD  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  my  harp  give  an  ear, 
Of  love,  and  of  war,  and  of  wonder  to  hear ; 
And  you  haply  may  sigh,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert,  and  fair  Rosalie. 
O  see  you  that  castle,  so  strong  and  so  high  ? 
And  see  you  that  lady,  the  tear  in  her  eye  '-> 
And  see  you  that  palmer,  from  Palestine's  land, 
The  shell  on  his  hat,  and  the  staff  in  his  hand  ? — 
"  Now  palmer,  grey  palmer,  O  tell  unto  me, 
What  news  bring  you  home  from  the  Holy  CountrLe? 
And  how  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  strand  ? 
And  how  fare  our  nobles,  the  flow'r  of  the  land? 
"O  well  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  wave, 
For  Gilead,  and  Nablous,  and  Raniah  we  have ; 
And  well  fare  our  nobles  by  Mount  Lebanon, 
For  the  Heathen  have  lost,  and  the  Christians  have 
won." — 

Affair  chain  of  sold  'mid  her  ringlets  there  hung; 
O'er  the  palmer's  grey  locks  the  fair  chain  has  she 

Hung : 

"  Oh  palmer,  grey  palmer,  this  chain  be  thy  fee, 
For   the   news   thou   hast   brought  from  the  Holy 

Countrie. 

"  O  palmer,  good  palmer,  by  Galilee's  wave, 
O  saw  ye  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and  brave  ? 
When  the  Crescent  went  back,  and  the  Red-cross 

rush'd  on, 
O  saw  ye  him  foremost  on  Mount,  Lebanon  ?" — 


"  O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  tree  green  it  grows ; 
O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  stream  pure  it  Hows ; 
Your  castle  stands  strong,  and  your  hopes  soar  on  high 
But  lady,  fair  lady,  all  blossoms  to  die. 

"The  green  boughs  they -wither,  the  thunderbolt  falls, 
It  leaves  of  your  castle  but  levin-scorched  walls ; 
The  pure  stream  runs  muddy  ;  the  gay  hope  is  gone ; 
Count  Albert  is  pris'ner  on  Mount  Lebanon." — 
O  she's  ta'en  a  horse,  should  be  fleet  at  her  speed ; 
And  she's  ta'en  a  sword,  should  be  sharp  at  her  need ; 
And  she  has  ta'en  shipping  for  Palestine's  laud, 
To  ransom  Count  Albert  from  Soldaurie's  hand. 
Small  thought  had  Count  Albert  on  fair  Rosalie, 
Small  thought  .->n  his  faith,  or  his  knighthood,  had  he ; 
A  heathenish  damsel  his  light  heart  had  won, 
The  Soldan's  fair  daughter  of  Mount  Lebanon. 

"Oh  Christian,  brave  Christian,  my  love  vould'st 

thou  be, 

Three  things  must  thou  do  ere  I  hearken  to  thee  : 
Our  laws  and  our  worship  on  thee  shalt  thou  take; 
And  this  thou  shalt  first  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 
"  And,  next,  in  the  cavern,  where  burns  evermore 
The  mystical  flame  which  the  Curdmans  adore, 
Alone,  and  in  silence,  three  nights  shalt  thou  wake ; 
And  this  thou  shalt  next  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 
"  And,  last,  thou  shalt  aid  us  with  council  and  hand, 
To  drive  the  Frank  robber  from  Palestine's  land ; 
For  my  lord  and  my  love  then  Count  Albert  I'll  take 
When  all  this  is  accomplish'd  for  Zulema's  sake."- 

He  has  thrown  by  his  helmet  and  crops-handled  sword, 
Renouncing  his  knighthood,  denying  his  Lord ; 
He  has  ta'en  the  green  caftan,  and  turban  put  on, 
For  the  love  of  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

And  in  the  dread  cavern,  deep  deep  under  ground, 
Which  fifty  steel  gates  and  steel  portals  surround, 
He  has  watch'd  until  day-break,  but  sight  saw  he  none, 
Save  the  flame  burning  bright  on  its  altar  of  stone. 
Amaz'd  was  the  princess,  the  soldan  amaz'd, 
Sore  murmur'd  the  priests  as  on  Albert  they  gaz'd ; 


THE  F1RB-KINQ.  607 

They  search'd  all  his  garments,  and,  under  his  weeds 
Iney  found,  and  took  from  him,  his  rosary  beads. 
Again  in  the  cavern,  deep  deep  under  ground, 
He  watch'd  the  lone  night,  while  the  winds  whistled 

round ; 

Far  off  was  their  murmur,  it  came  not  more  nigh. 
Ihe  flame  burn  d  unmov'd,and  nought  else  did  he  spy. 
Loud  murmur'd  the  priests,  and  amaz'd  was  the  king, 
While  many  dark  spells  of  their  witchcraft  they  sing 
They  search  d  Albert's  body,  and,  lo  !  on  his  breast 
Was  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  by  his  father  impress'd. 
The  priests  they  erase  it  with  care  and  with  pain, 
And  the  recreant  return 'd  to  the  cavern  again  • 

But,  as  he  descended,  a  whisper  there  fe'l  ' 

It  was  his  good  angel,  who  bade  him  farewell ! 
High  bristled  his  hair,  his  heart  flutter'd  and  beat 
And  he  turn'd  him  live  steps,  half  resolv'd  to  retreat- 
But  his  heart  it  was  hardened,  his  purpose  was  gone' 
Whence  thought  on  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

Scarce  pass'd  he  the  archway,  the  threshold  scarce  trod, 
VV  hen  the  winds  from  the  four  points  of  heav'n  were 

abroad ; 

They  made  each  steel  portal  to  rattle  and  ring, 
And,  borne  on  the  blast,  came  the  dread  Fire-King. 
Full  sore  rock'd  the  cavern  whene'er  he  drew  nigh 
Ihe  fire  on  the  altar  blaz'd  bick'ring  and  high- 
In  volcanic  explosions  the  mountains  proclaim' 
Ihe  dreadful  approach  of  the  Monarch  of  Flame. 
Unmeasur'd  in  height,  undistinguish'd  in  form 
His  breath  it  was  lightning,  his  voice  it  was  storm  • 
1  ween  the  stout  heart  of  Count  Albert  was  tame 
When  he  saw  in  his  terrors  the  Monarch  of  Flame. 

In  his  hand  abroad  falchion  blue-glimmerd  throueb. 

smoke, 
And   Mount   Lebanon  shook  as  the  monarch  h« 

spoke : — 
"  With  this  brand  shall  thou  conquer,  thus  lone  and 

no  more, 
Till  thou  bend  to  the  Cross,  and  the  Virgin  adore." 


608  IIIE  FIRE-KING. 

The  cloud-shrouded  arm  gives  the  weapon;  and,  see 
The  recreant  receives  the  charm'd  gift  on  his  knee : 
The  thunders  growl  distant,  and  faint  gleam  the  fires, 
As,  borne  on  his  -whirlwind,  the  Phantom  retires. 

Count  Albert  has  arm'd  him  the  Paynim  among, 
Though  his  heart  it  was  false,  yet"  his  arm  it  was 

strong ; 
And   the  Red-cross  wax'd  faint,  and  the  Crescent 

came  on, 
From  the  day  he  commanded  on  Mount  Lebanon. 

From  Lebanon's  forests  to  Galilee's  -wave, 

The  sands  of  Samaar  drank  the  blood  of  the  brave ; 

Till  the  Knights  of  the  Temple,  and  Knights  of  Saint 

John, 
With  Salem's  King  Baldwin,  against  him  came  on. 

The  'war-cymbals  clatter'd,  the  trumpets  replied, 
The   lances  were-couch'd,  and  they  clos'd  on  each 

side ; 

And  horsemen  and  horses  Count  Albert  o'erthr«w, 
Till  he  pierc'd  the  thick  tumult  King  Baldwin  unto. 

Against  the  charm'd  blade  which  Count  Albert  did 

wield 
The  fence  had  been  vain  of  the  King's  Red-cross 

shield ; 

But  a  Page  thrust  him  forward  the  monarch  before, 
And  cleft  the  proud  turban  the  renegade  wore. 

So  fell  was  the  dint,  that  Count  Albert  stoop'd  low 
Before  the  cross'd  shield,  to  his  steel  saddle-bow ; 
And  scarce  had  he  bent  to  the  Red-cross  his  head, — 
"  Bonne  grace,  notre  Dame"  he  unwittingly  said. 

Sore  sigh'd  the  charm'd  sword,  for  its  virtue  was  o'er, 
It  sprung  from  his  grasp,  and  was  never  seen  more  ; 
But  true  men  have  said,  that  the  lightning's  red  wing 
Did  waft  back  the  brand  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

He  clench'd  his  set  teeth,  and  his  gauntletted  hand  ; 
He  stretch'd,  with  one  bufi'et,  that  Page  on  the  strand  ; 
As  back  from  the  stripling  the  broken  casque  roll'd, 
You  might  see  the  blue  eyes,  and  the  ringlets  of  gold. 


FREDERICK  AND  ALICE.  609 

Short  time  had  Count  Albert  in  horror  to  stare 

On  those  death-swimming  eye-lolls,  and  blood-clotted 

hair; 

For  down  came  the  Templars,  like  Cedron  in  flood. 
And  dyed  their  long  lances  iu  Saracen  blood. 
The  Saracens,  Curdmans,  and  Ishmaelites  yield 
To  the  scallop,  the  saltier,  and  crossletied  shield; 
And  the  eagles  were  gorg'd  with  the  infidel  dead, 
From  Bethsaida's  fountains  to  Napr-'ali's  head. 
The  battle  is  over  on  Bethsaida's  plain. — 
Oh,  who  is  yon  Paynim  lies  stretch' d  'mid  the  slain? 
And  who  is  yon  Page  lying  cold  at  his  knee? — • 
Oh,  who  but  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 
The  Lady  was  buried  in  Salem's  bless'd  bound, 
The  Count  he  was  left  to  the  vulture  and  hound : 
Her  soul  to  high  mercy  Our  I«idy  did  bring ; 
.His  went  on  the  blast  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

Yet  many  a  minstrel,  in  harping,  can  tell, 
How  the  Red  Cross  it  conquer' d,  the  Crescent  it  fell; 
And  lords  and  gay  ladies  have  sigh'd,  'mid  their  glee, 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 


FREDERICK  AND  ALICE. 

[This  tale  is  iniit  ited,  rather  thiin  tr.msLue'l,  from  a  fragment 
introduced  iu  O..e;ht-'s  ••Ci.m.li-.a  vo.i  Vi.l  i  Ui-lIt,''  where  \t?s  jung 
fcjr  a  member  nt'd  gang  of  banditti,  to  enga.-e  t!i  aUeiitiou  of  tlw 
Cunily,  wliile  his  companions  break  iuto  the  castle.] 

FRED'RICK  leaves  the  land  of  France, 

Homewards  hastes  his  steps  to  measure; 
Careless  casts  the  parting  glance, 

On  the  scene  of  former  pleasure ; 
Joying  in  his  prancing  steed, 

Keen  to  prove  his  untried  blade, 
Hope  s  gay  dreams  the  soldier  lead 

Over  mountain,  moor,  and  glade. 

Helpless,  ruin'd,  left  forlorn, 
Lovely  Alice  wept  alone ; 
2c'2 


610  FREDERICK  AND  ALICE. 

Mourn 'd  o'er  love's  fond  contract  torn, 
Hope,  and  peace,  and  honour  flown. 

Mark  her  breast's  convulsive  throbs ! 

See,  the  tear  of  anguish  flows  i— 
Mingling  soon  with  bursting  sobs, 

Loud  the  laugh  of  frenzy  rose. 

Wild  she  curs' d,  and  wild  she  pray'd ; 

Sev'n  long  days  and  nights  are  o'er ; 
Death  in  pity  brought  his  aid, 

As  the  village  bell  struck  four. 

Far  from  her,  and  far  from  France, 
Faithless  Fred' rick  onward  rides ; 

Marking,  blithe,  the  morning's  glanca 
Mantling  o'er  the  mountain's  sides. 

Heard  ye  not  the  boding  sound, 
As  the  tongue  of  yonder  tow'r 

Slowly,  to  the  hills  around, 

Told  the  fourth,  the  fated  hour  ? 

Starts  the  steed,  and  snuffs  the  air, 
Yet  no  cause  of  dread  appears  ; 

Bristles  high  the  rider's  hair, 

Struck  with  strange  mysterious  fears. 

Desp'rate,  as  his  terrors  rise, 
In  the  steed  the  spur  he  hides ; 

From  himself  in  vain  he  flies  ; 
Anxious,  restless,  on  he  rides. 

Sev'n  long  days,  and  sev'n  long  nights, 
Wild  he  wander' d,  woe  the  while  ! 

Ceaseless  care,  and  causeless  fright, 
Urge  hib  footsteps  many  a  mile. 

Dark  the  sev'nth  sad  night  descends  ; 

Risers  swell,  and  rain-streams  pour ; 
While  the  deaf  ning  thunder  lends 

All  the  terrors  of  its  roar. 

Weary,  wet,  and  spent  with  toil, 

Where  his  head  shall  Fred'rick  hide? 

Where,  but  in  yon  ruined  aisle, 
By  the  lightning's  flash  descried. 


FREDERICK  AND  ALICE.  611 

To  the  portal,  dank  and  low, 

Past  his  steed  the  wand'rer  bound ; 

Down  a  ruin'd  staircase  slow, 
Next  his  darkling  way  he  wound. 

Long  drear  vaults  before  him  lie ; 

Glimm'ring  lights  are  seen  to  glide ! — 
"  Blessed  Mary,  hear  my  cry  ! 

Deign  a  sinner's  steps  to  guide  !" — 

Often  lost  their  quiv'ring  beam, 

Still  the  lights  move  slow  before, 
Till  they  rest  their  ghastly  gleam 

Right  against  an  iron  door. 

Thund'ring  voices  from  within, 

Mix  d  with  peals  of  laughter,  rose; 
As  they  fell,  a  solemn  strain 

Lent  its  wild  and  wondrous  close ! 

'Midst  the  din,  he  seem'd  to  hear 

Voice  of  friends,  by  death  remov'd; — • 

Well  he  knew  that  solemn  air, 
'Twas  the  lay  that  Alice  lov'd. — 

Hark  !  for  now  a  solemn  knell 

Four  times  on  the  still  night  broke ; 

Four  times,  at  its  deadeu'd  swell, 
Echoes  from  the  ruins  spoke. 

As  the  lengthen'd  clangours  die, 

Slowly  opes  the  iron  door ! 
Straight  a  banquet  met  his  eye, 

But  a  funeral's  form  it  wore ! 
Coffins  for  the  seats  extend ; 

All  with  black  the  board  was  spread ; 
Girt  by  parent,  brother,  friend, 

Long  si  ,ice  number'd  with  the  dead ! 

Alice,  in  her  ^rave-clothes  bound, 

Ghastly  smiling,  points  a  seat ; 
All  arose,  with  thund'ring  sound; 

All  th'  expected  stranger  greet. 
High  their  meagre  arms  they  wave, 

Wild  their  notes  of  welcome  swell ;  — 


612 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN. 


'  Welcome,  traitor,  to  the  grave  ! 
Perjur'd,  bid  the  light  farewell  ?" 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 

[This  is  a  translation,  or  rather  an  imitation,  of  the  I-nidi  Jaaer 
of  the  German  poet  Burger.  The  tradition  upon  which  it  is  found- 
ed bears,  that  formerly  a  Wildgi  ave,  or  keeper  of  a  royal  torest, 
named  Polketlburgh.  was  so  much  a  .dieted  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
chase,  and  otherwise  so  extremely  profligate  and  cruel,  that  he 
y  followed  this  unhallowed  Amusement  on  the  Sabbath, 
^ier  day*  consecrated  to  religious  duly,  hut  accomnai.i«l 


people  -idopted  a  superstition,  founded  proliably  011  Hie  many 
ous  uucouth  soun.ls  heard  in  the  depth  of  a  Germ  .11  forest, 
ing  the  silence  of  the  night  They  con.  eived  they  still  heard 
ory  of  the  VVil^rave',  Rounds}  and  the  ivell-kl.ow,,  cheer  of 
te  deceased  hunter,  the  sounds  of  his  horses'  feet,  and  the  rust- 
ling of  the  blanches  before  the  game,  the  pack,  and  tne  sportsmen, 
are  also  distinctly  ducruuiualed  ;  but  the  phantoms,  are  rarely  it 
ever,  visible. J 

THE  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn. 

To  horsu,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  ! 
His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 
The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed, 

Dash  thiough  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake; 
While  answ'nng  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed, 

The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  hallow'd  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold, 

And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray, 

Loud,  long,  and  deep,  the  bell  had  toll'd : 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides ; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  again ! 
When,  spuniug  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  Stranger  Horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  Stranger,  left  and  right, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white, 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN.  613 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 

His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May  ; 
The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare, 

Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 
He  wav'd  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 

Cried,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord! 
What  sport  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 

To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford?" 

"Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell," 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice- 

"  And  for  devotion's  choral  swell, 
Exchange  the  rude  unhallow'd  noise. 

"  To-dav,  th'  ill-omen'd  chase  forbear, 

Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane ; 
To-day  the  Warning  Spirit  hear, 

To-morrow  thou  may'st  mourn  in  vain." 
"Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along !" 

The  Sable  Hunter  hoarse  replies  ; 
"  To  mutt'ring  monks  leave  matin-song, 

And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries." 

The  Wildgrave  spurr'd  his  ardent  steed, 
^  And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 
Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede, 
Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound? 

"  Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray : — 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-brow'd  friend; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  away  !" 

The  Wildgrave  spurr'd  his  courser  light, 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill  • 
And  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right, 

Each  Stranger  Horseman  follow'd  still. 
Up  springs,  from  yonder  tangl'd  thorn, 

A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow 
And  louder  rung  the  Wildgrave's  horn, 

'  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho  P 
A  heedless  wretch  has  cross'd  the  way ; 

He  gasp,  the  thund'ring  hoofs  below  ;— 


614  THE  WILD  UUNTSMEX 

But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 
Still,  "  Forward,  forward  !"  on  they  go. 

See,  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 

A  field  with  autumn's  blessings  crown'd ; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave  s  feet, 
A  husbandman,  with  toil  embrowii'd  : 

"  0  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord  ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"  Earu'd  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  pour'd, 

In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July." — 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

Th'  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"  Away,  thou  hound  !  so  basely  b'irn, 
Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow  !" — 

Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle  horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !" 

So  said,  so  done  : — A  single  bound 

Clears  the  poor  labourer's  humble  pale ; 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  horn, 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along ; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn, 

Fell  Famine  marks  the  madd'ning  throng. 

Again  up-rous'd,  the  tim'rous  prey 

Scours  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appear'd ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill, 
His  track  the  steady  blood-hounds  trace  ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still, 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN.  615 

Pull  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall ; — 

"  O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 
These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all ; 

These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care." 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads, 

The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 
The  Earl  nor  pray'r  nor  pity  heeds, 

But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

— "  Unmanner'd  dog  !  To  stop  my  sport 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine, 

Though  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort, 

Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  T' — 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle  horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  P* 

And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless  scorn 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall ; 

Down  sinks  their  mangl'd  herdsman  near; 
The  murd'rous  cries  the  stag  appal, — 

Again  he  starts,  new-nerv'd  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmear'd,  and  white  with  foam, ' 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour, 

He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom, 
The  humble  hermit's  hallow'd  bow'r. 

But  man,  and  horse,  and  horn,  and  hound, 

Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  "  Hark  away !  and,  holla,  ho  !" 

All  mild,  amid  the  route  profane, 
The  holy  hermit  pour'd  his  pray'r  ;— 

"  Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to'  stain  ; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear ! 

The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead, 

Which,  wrong'd  by  cruelty,  or  pride, ' 
Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head  :- 

Be  warn'd  at  length,  and  turn  aside." 
Still  the  Fair  Horseman  anxious  pleads ; 

The  Black,  wild  whooping,  points  the'prey .— 


616  THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN. 

Alas  !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds, 
But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

"  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn ; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 

Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me  turn!" 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !" — 

But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne, 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse,  and  man,  and  horn,  and  hound, 
And  clamour  of  the  chase,  was  gone  ; 

For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reign' d  alone. 

Wild  gaz'd  the  affrighted  Earl  around; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn; 
In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds ; 

No  distant  baying  reach'd  his  ears  : 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground, 

The  quick'ning  spur  unmindful  bears.     . 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark,  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  tcrrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbl'd  head 
At  "length  the  solemn  silence  broke  ; 

And,  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red, 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair  ! 

Apostate  Spirits'  harden'd  tool  i 
Scorner  of  God  !  Scourge  of  the  poor ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"Be  chas'd  for  ever  through  the  wood; 

For  ever  roam  the  affrighted  wild ; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child," — 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN.  61? 

Tw*s  hush'd  :  One  flash,  of  sombre  glare, 

With  yellow  ting'd  the  forests  brown; 
Up  rose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair, 

And  horror  chill' d  each  nerve  and  bone. 
Cold  pour'd  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill; 

A  rising  v  ind  began  to  sing ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call ;—  Her  entrails  rend : 
From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell. 

Mix'd  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 
The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  Huntsman  next  arose, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe ; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn, 
And,  "  Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho  P* 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye, 

Close,  close  behind,  he  marks  the  throng, 

With  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry ; 
111  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. — 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase, 

Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end  : 
By  day,  they  scour  earth's  cavern'd  space. 

At  midnight's  witching  hour,  asceud. 
This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and  horse, 

That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears ; 
Appall'd,  he  si^-us  the  frequent  cro^, 

when  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
b  or  human  pride,  for  human  vroe, 

When,  at  his  midnight  m^ss.  lie  hears 
'ILu  internal  cry  of,  "  Eciia,  to !"' 


618  WAR  sows. 

WAR   SO  IT  d 


ROYAL  EDINBURGH  LIGHT  DRAGOONS, 

WRITTEN  DURING  THE  APPREHENSION  Otf  AN  INVASION, 

To  horse  !  to  horse !  the  standard  flies, 

The  bugles  sound  the  call; 
The  Gallic  navy  stems  the  seas, 
The  voice  of  Battle's  on  the  breeze, 

Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 
From  high  Dunedin's  tow'rs  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true  ; 
Our  casques  the  ''sopard's  spoils  surround, 
With  Scotland's  hardy  thistle  croWd ; 

We  boast  the  red  and  blue.* 
Though  tamely  crouch  to  Gallia's  frown, 

Dull  Holland's  tardy  train  ; 
Their  ravish'd  toys  though  Romans  mourn, 
Though  gallant  Switzers  vainly  spurn, 

And,  foaming,  gnaw  the  chain ; 

O  !  had  they  mark'd  th'  avenging  call 

Their  brethren's  murder  gave, 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown, 
Nor  patriot  valour,  desp'rate  grown, 

Sought  freedom  in  the  grave  ! 
Shall  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head, 

In  Freedom's  temple  born, 
Dress  our  pale  cheek  in  timid  smile, 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  isle, 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn? 

No  !  though  destruction  o'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood, 
The  sun,  that  sees  our  falling  day, 
Shall  mark  our  sabres'  deadly  sway, 

And  set  that  night  in  blood. 

*  The  Royal  Colours. 


THE  NORMAN  HORSE-SHOE.  619 

For  gold  let  Gallia's  legions  fight, 

Or  plunder's  bloody  gain ; 
Unbrib'd,  unbought,  our  swords  we  draw, 
To  guard  our  King,  to  fence  our  Lair, 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

If  ever  breath  of  British  gale 

Shall  fan  the  tri-color, 
Or  footstep  of  invader  rr/Jfl, 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  -with  blood, 

Pollute  our  happy  shore, — 

Then  farewell  home  !  and  farewell  friends  ! 

Adieu  each  tender  tie  ! 
Resolv'd,  we  mingle  in  the  tide, 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride, 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  sabres  gleam  ; 

High  sounds  our  bugle  call ; 
Combin'd  by  honour's  sacred  tie, 
Our  word  is,  Laws  and  Liberty! 

March  forward,  one  and  all ! 


THE  NORMAN  HORSE-SHOE. 


Aia  -  The  War-song  of  the  Men  of  Glamorgan 
I. 

RED  glows  the  forge  in  Strie^uil's  bounds, 
And  hammers  din,  and  anvil  sounds, 
And  armourers,  with  iron  toil, 
Barb  many  a  steed  for  battle's  broil. 


620  THE  NORMAN  HORSE-SHOE. 

Foul  fall  the  hand  which  bends  the  steel 
Around  the  courser's  thundering  heel, 
That  e'er  shall  dint  a  sable  wound 
On  fair  Glamorgan's  velvet  ground  ! 

II. 

From  Chepstow's  tow'rs,  ere  dawn  of  morn, 
Was  heard  afar  the  bugle  horn  ; 
And  forth,  in  banded  pomp  and  pride, 
Stout  Clare  and  fiery  Neville  ride. 
They  swore,  their  banners  broad  should  gleam, 
In  crimson  light,  on  Rymny's  stream ; 
They  vow'd,  Caerphili's  sod  should  feel 
The  Norman  charger's  spurning  heel. 

III. 

And  sooth  they  swore — the  sun  arose, 
And  Rymny's  wave  with  crimson  glows; 
For  Clare's  red  banner,  floating  wide, 
Roll'd  down  the  stream  to  Severn's  tide  ! 
And  sooth  they  vow'd — the  trampled  green 
Show'd  where  hot  Neville's  charge  had  been  : 
In  every  sable  hoof-tramp  stood 
A  Norman  horseman's  curdling  blood ! 

IV. 

Old  Chepstow's  brides  may  curse  the  toil, 
That  arm'd  stout  Clare  for  Cambrian  broil ; 
Their  orphans  long  the  art  may  rue, 
For  Neville's  war-horse  forg'd  the  shoe. 
No  more  the  stamp  of  armed  steed 
Shall  dint  Glamorgan's  velvet  mead; 
Nor  trace  be  there,  in  early  springy 
Save  of  the  Fairies'  emerald  ring. 


THE  DYING  BARD.  62] 

THE   DYING   BARD. 

adapted ;  requesting,  that  it  mi| 

An» Daffydz  Gangwen. 

I. 

DINAS  EMLINN,  lament ;  for  the  moment  is  nigh 
When  mute  in  the  woodlands  thine  echoes  shall  die- 
JNo  more  by  sweet  Teivi  Cadwallon  shall  rave 
And  mix  his  wild  notes  with  the  wild  dashing 'wave 


it. 


In  spring  and  in  autumn  thy  glories  of  shade 
Unhonour  d  shall  flourish,  unhonour'd  shall  fade- 
For  soon  shall  be  lifeless  the  eye  and  the  tongue' 
hat  view  d  them  with  rapture,  with  rapture  that  sung. 

ill. 

Thy  sons,  Dinas  Emlinn,  may  march  in  their  pride 
And  chase  the  proud  Saxon  from  Prestatyn's  side- 
But  where  is  the  harp  shall  give  life  to  their  name? 
And  where  is  the  bard  shall  give  heroes  their  fame? 

IV. 

And  Oh,  Dinas  Emlinn !  thy  daughters  so  fair 
Who  heave  the  white  bosom,  and  wave  the  dark  hair  • 
What  tuneful  enthusiast  shall  worship  their  eye 
V\  hen  half  of  their  charms  wiih  Cadwallon  shall  die? 

v. 

Then  adieu,  silver  Teivi !  I  qu;t  thy  lov'd  scene 
Jo  join  the  dim  choir  of  the  bards  who  have  been  • 
With  Lewarch,  and  Meilor,  and  Merlin  the  Old    ' 
And  sage  Taliessin,  high  harping  to  hold. 

Vi. 

And  adieu  Dinas  Emlinn  !  still  green  be  thy  shades 
Lnconquer'd  thy  warriors,  and  matchless  thy  makk  ' 
And  thou,  whose  famt  warblings  my  weakness  can  tell 
farewell,  my  lov'd  Harp!  my  last  treasure,  fareweU  ' 


622  THE  MAID  OF  TOBO. 


THE  MAID  OF  TORO. 

O,  low  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of  Toro, 

And  weak  were  the  whispers  that  wav'd  the  dark 

wood, 
All  as  a  fair  maiden,  bewilder'd  in  sorrow, 

Sorely  sigh'd  to  the  breezes,  and  wept  to  the  flood. 
"O,  saints !  from  the  mansions  of  bliss  lowly  bending; 

Sweet  Virgin!  who  nearest  the  suppliant's  cry; 
Now  grant  my  petition,  in  anguish  ascending, 

My  Henry  restore,  or  let  Eleanor  die  !" 

All  distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of  the  battle, 
With  the  breezes  they  rise,  with  the  breezes  they 

fail, 
Till  the  shout,  and  the  groan,  and  the  conflict's  dread 

rattle, 
And  the  chase's  wild  clamour,  came  loading  the 

gale. 
Breathless  she  gaz'd  on  the  woodlands  so  dreary; 

Slowly  approaching  a  warrior  was  seen ; 
Life's  ebbing  tide  mark'd  his  footsteps  so  weary, 
Cleft  was  his  helmet,  and  woe  was  his  mien. 

"  O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies  are  flying ! 

O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian  is  low  ! 
Deadly  cold  on  yon  heath  thy  brave  Henry  is  lying; 

And  fast  through  the  woodland  approaches  the 

foe." — 
Scarce  could  he  falter  the  tidings  of  sorrow, 

And  scarce  could  she  hear  them,  benumb'd  with 

despair : 
And  when  the  sun  sunk  on  the  sweet  lake  of  Toro, 

For  ever  he  set  to  the  Brave,  and  the  Fair. 


HELLYEIXYN. 


HELLVELLYN. 

[In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of  lalentt,  and  of  a 
most  amiable  disposition,  perished  by  losing  his  way  on  the  moun- 
tain Hellvellyn.  His  remains  w.-re  not  discovered  till  three  months 
afterwards,  when  they  werf  found  guarded  by  a  faithful  terrier- 
bitch,  his  constant  attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles 
through  the  wilds  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.] 

I  CLIMB'D  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleam'd  misty 

and  wide ; 

All  was  still,  save,  by  fits  -when  tiie  eagle  was  yell- 
ing, 

And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 

bending, 

And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  mark'd  the  sad  spot  where  the  wand'rer 
had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  brown  mountain- 
heather, 

Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lav  stretch'd  in  decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandon'd  to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain- winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  fav'rite  attended, 
The  much-lov'd  remains  of  her  master  defended, 

And  chas'd  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slum- 
ber ; 
When  the  wind  wav'd  his  garment,  how  oft  didst 

thou  start ; 
How  many  long  days  and   long  weeks  didst  thou 

number, 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart? 
And,  Oh!  was  it  meet,  that, — no  requiem  read  o'er 

him, 

No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch'd  before  him, — 
Unhonour'd  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 


624  HELLVKLLTN.- 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant  has  yielded, 
The  tap'stry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall  : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are 
gleaming; 

In  the  proudly-arch' d  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming  ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  Puople  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  he?  d  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb ; 
When,  wilder'd,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in 

stature, 

And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desart  lake  lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  grey  plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


THE  END. 


BOOKS 

IN    THE    VARIOUS    DEPARTMENTS 

OF 


PUBLISHED  BY 

D.  APPLETON   &    €0.,    NEW-YORK, 

AND 
GEORGE  S.  APPLETOV,  PHILADELPHIA. 


HISTORY  OF  THE  REFORMATION 
OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  ENGLAND.  By  GILBERT  BURNET, 
D.D.,  late  Bishop  of  Salisbury.  With  a  Collection  of  Records, 
and  a  copious  Index,  revised  and  corrected,  with  additional 
Notes  and  a  Preface,  by  the  Rev.  E.  Nares,  D.D.  Illustrated 
with  a  Frontispiece  and  twenty-three  Portraits  on  steel.  Form. 
ing  four  elegant  8vo.  vols.  of  near  600  pages  each.  $8  00. 

To  the  student  either  of  civil  or  religious  history  no  epoch  can  be  of  more 
importance  than  that  of  the  Reformation  in  England.  It  signalized  the 
overthrow,  in  one  of  its  strongest  holds,  of  the  Romar,  power,  and  gave  an 
impulse  to  the  human  mind,  the  full  results  of  which  are  even  now  but 
partly  realized.  Almost  all  freedom  of  inquiry — all  U  mration  in  matters  of 
religion,  had  its  birth-hour  then  ;  and  without  a  familiar  acquaintance  with 
all  its  principal  events,  but  little  progress  can  be  made  in  understanding 
the  nature  and  ultimate  tendencies  of  the  revolution  then  effected. 

The  History  of  Bishop  BUKNET  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  and  by  far 
the  most  frequently  quoted  of  any  that  has  been  written  of  this  great  event. 
Upon  the  original  publication  of  the  first  volume,  it  was  received  in 
Great  Britain  with  tho  loudest  and  most  extravagant  encomiums.  The 
author  received  the  thanks  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  was  request- 
ed by  them  to  continue  the  work.  In  continuing  it  he  had  the  assistance  of 
the  most  learned  and  eminent  divines  of  his  time  ;  and  he  confesses  his  in- 
debtedness for  important  aid  to  LLOYD,  TILLOTSON  and  STILLINQFI.EET, 
three  of  the  greatest  of  England's  Bishops.  •'  I  know,"  says  he,  in  his  Pre- 
face to  the  second  volume,  "  that  nothing  can  more  effectually  recommend 
this  work,  than  to  say  that  it  passed  with  their  hearty  approbation,  after 
they  had  examined  it  with  that  care  which  their  great  zeal  fur  the  cause  con 
cerned  in  it,  and  their  goodness  to  the  author  and  freedom  with  him,  obliged 
them  to  use." 

The  present  edition  of  this  great  work  has  been  edited  with  laborious 
care  by  L)r.  Nares,  who  professes  to  have  corrected  important  errors  into 
which  the  author  fell,  and  to  have  made  such  improvements  in  the  order  of 
the  work  as  will  render  it  far  more  useful  to  the  reader  or  historical  student. 
Preliminary  explanations,  full  and  sufficient  to  the  clear  understanding  of 
the  author,  are  given,  and  marginal  references  are  made  throughout  the 
book,  so  as  greatly  to  facilitate  and  render  accurate  its  consultation.  The 
•whole  is  published  in  four  large  octavo  volumes  of  six  hundred  pages  in 
each — printed  upon  heavy  paper  in  large  and  clear  type.  It  contains  por- 
traits of  twenty-four  of  the  most  celebrated  characters  of  the  Reformation, 
and  is  issued  in  a  very  neat  slyle.  It  will  of  course  find  a  place  in  every 
theologian's  library— and  will,  by  110  means,  we  trust,  be  confined  to  that 
comparatively  lirnitedsphere. 


D.  Appleton  Sf  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works.       3 

PALMER'S 
TREATISE    ON    THE    CHURCH. 

A  Treatise  on  the  Church  of  Christ.  Designed  chiefly  for  the 
use  of  Students  in  Theology.  By  the  Rev.  William  Palmer, 
M.A.,  of  Worcester  College,  Oxford.  Edited,  with  Notes,  by 
the  Right  Rev.  W.  R.  Whittingham,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  the  Pro- 
testant Episcopal  Church  in  the  Diocese  of  Maryland.  Two 
vols.  8vo.,  handsomely  printed  on  fine  paper.  $5  00. 

"The  treatise  of  Mr.  Palmer  is  the  best  exposition  and  vindication  of  Church  Principles 
that  we  have  ever  read  ;  excelling  contemporaneous  treatises  in  deplh  of  learning  and  soli- 
dity of  judgment,  as  much  as  it  excels  older  treatises  on  tlie  like  subjects,  in  adaptation  to 
the  wants  and  habits  of  the  age.  Of  its  influence  in  England,  where  it  has  passed  through 
two  editions,  we  have  not  ihe  means  to  form  an  opinion  ;  but  we  believe  that  in  this  country 
it  has  already,  even  before  its  reprint,  dime  more  to  restore  the  sound  tone  of  Catholic  prin- 
ciples and  feel  ing  than  any  other  one  work  of  the  age.  The  author's  learning  and  powers  of 
eombinaiion  and  arrangement,  great  as  they  obviously  are,  are  less  remarkable  than  the  sterl- 
ing good  sense,  the  vigorous  and  solid  judgment,  which  is  every  where  manifest  m  the  trea- 
tise, and  confers  on  it  its  distinctive  excellence.  The  style  of  the  author  is  distinguished  for 

reve'renlial;  and  always,  so  far  as  we  remember,  .sufficiently  conciliatory. 

"  To  our  clergy  and  intelligent  laity,  who  desire  to  see  the  Church  justly  discriminated 
from  Romanists  on  the  one  hand,  and  dissenting  denominations  on  the  other,  we  earnestly 
commend  Palmer's  Treatiseon  the  Church."— AC  Y.  Churchman. 

PAROCHIAL    SERMONS, 

BY   JOHN    HENRY    NEWMAN,    B.D., 

Fellow  of  the  Oriel  College  and  Vicar  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin's, 
Oxford.     The  six  volumes  of  the  London  edition  complete  in 
two  elegant  8vo.  volumes  of  upwards  of  600  pages  each.  $5  00. 
fr5~  Mr.  Newman's  Sermons  have  probably  attained  a  higher  character 
than  any  others  ever  published  in  this  country.    The  following  recom- 
mendatory letter  (is  one  of  the  many)  received  by  the  publishers  during 
their  progress  through  the  press. 

From  the  Bishop  of  North  Carolina. 

Raleigh,  Nov.  28, 1842. 

Your  letter  announcing  your  intention  to  republish  the  Parochial  Sermons  of  the  Rev.  John 
Henry  Newman,  B.D.,  Oxfoid,  has  given  me  sincere  pleasuie.  In  complying  with  your 
request  for  my  opinion  of  them,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,— after  a  constant  use  of  them  in  my 
closet,  and  an  observation  of  their  effect  upon  some  of  my  friends,  for  the  last  six  years,— that 
they  aie  among  the  very  best  praciical  sermons  in  the  English  language;  that  while  they  are 
free  from  those  extravagance*  of  opinion  usually  ascribed  10  the  author  of  the  90th  Tract, 
they  assert  in  the  strongest  manner  the  true  doctrines  of  the  Reformation  in  England,  and  en- 
force with  peculiar  solemnity  and  effect  that  holiness  of  life,  with  the  means  thereto,  so  char- 
acteristic ofthe  Fathers  if  that  trying  age.  With  high  respect  and  esteem,  your  friend  and 
•ervant,  L.  S.  IVES. 

HARE'S    PAROCHIAL    SERMONS. 

Sermons  to  a  Country  Congregation.  By  Augustus  William 
Hare,  A.M.,  late  Fellow  of  New  College,  and  Rector  of  Alton 
Barnes.  One  volume,  royal  8vo.  $2  25. 

"  Any  »ne  who  can  be  pleased  with  delicacy  of  thought  expressed  in  the  most  simple  Ian 
guage— ai.j  one  who  can  feel  the  charm  of  finding  practical  duties  elucidated  and  enforced 
by  apt  and  varied  illu-!tration9--will  be  delighted  with  this  volume,  which  presents  us  with  the 
workings  of  a  pious  ucid  highly  gifted  miud."— Qt<ar.  Review. 


D.  Appleton  $•  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works.        5 

CHURCHMAN'S  LIBRARY. 

The  volumes  of  this  series  are  of  a  standard  character  and  highly  recom- 
mended by  the  Bishops  emd  Clergy  of  the  Protestant  Episcojjl  Church. 


THE    PRACTICAL    CHRISTIAN; 

Or,  Devout  Penitent.  By  R.  Sherlocke,  D.D.,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by 
the  Right  Rev.  Bishop  Wilson.  One  elegant  volume.  16mo.  75  cents. 

THE  CHURCHMAN'S  COMPANION  IN  THE  CLOSET; 

Or,  a  Complete  Manual  of  Private  Devotions.  Collected  from  the  -writings  of 
Archbishop  Laud,  Bishop  Andrewes,  Bishop  Ken,  Dr.  Hickes,  Mr.  Kettle- 
well,  Mr.  Spinckes,  and  other  eminent  old  English  Divines.  With  a  Pre- 
face by  Rsv.  Mr.  Spinckes.  Edited  by  Francis  E.Paget,  M.  A.  One  ele- 
gant volume,  16mo.  $1  00. 

OF     THE     IMITATION    OF    CHRIST. 

Four  books,  by  Thomas  a  Kempis,  a  new  and  complete  edition,  elegantly 
printed.     1  vol.  16mo.     $1  00. 


Disce  Mori,  Learn  to  Die  :  a  Religious  Discourse,  moving  every  Christian 
man  to  enter  into  a  serious  Remembrance  of  his  End.  By  Christopher  Sut- 
ton,  D.D..  late  Prebend  of  Westminster.  1  vol.  16mo.,  elegantly  orna- 
mented. $1  00. 

SACRA    PRIVATA  : 

The  Private  Meditations,  Devotions,  and  Prayers  of  the  Right  Rev.  T.  Wil- 
son, D.D.,  Lord  Bishop  of  Soder  and  Man.  First  complete  edition.  1  vol. 
royal  16mo.,  elegantly  ornamented.  $1  00. 

MEDITATIONS   ON   TH  E  SACRAM  ENT. 

Godly  Meditations  upon  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper.  By 
Christopher  Sutton,  D.D-,  late  Prebend  of  Westminster.  1  vol.  royal  16mo., 
elegantly  ornamented.  $1  00. 

A    DISCOURSE    CONCERNING    PRAYER 

And  the  frequenting  Daily  Public  Prayer.  By  Symon  Patrick,  D.D.,  sometime 
Lord  Bishop  of  Ely.  Edited  by  Francis  E.  Paget,  M.A.,  Chaplain  to  the 
Lord  Bishop  of  Oxford.  1  vol.  royal  16mo.,  elegantly  ornamented.  75  cents. 


THOUGHTS   IN     PAST    YEARS. 

1  collection  of  Poetry,  chiefly  Devotional.     By  the  autlv 
ithedral."     1  vol.  royal  16mo.,  elegantly  printed.     $1  2 

THE    CHRISTMAS    BELLS: 

Holy   Tide,  and  other  Poems.     By   the  author  of  "  ( 
lia,"  &c.     1  vol.  royal  16mo.,  elegantly  ornamented.     *> 

These  volumes  will  be  followed  by  others  of  equal  importance. 


A  beautiful  collection  of  Poetry,  chiefly  Devotional.     By  the  author  of  "The 
Cathedral."     1  vol.  royal  16mo.,  elegantly  printed.     $1  25. 


A  Tale  of  Holy   Tide,  and  other  Poems.     By   the  author  of  "Constance," 
"Virginia,"  <fcc.     1  vol.  royal  16mo.,  elegantly  ornamented.     75  cents. 


D.  Appleton  t£  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works. 

Cabinet  Edition  of  the  Poets. 


COWP£R'S   COMPLETE    POETICAL 
WORKS. 

The  complet^roetical  Works  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.,  including 
the  Hymns  and  Translations  from  Mad.  Guion,  Milton,  &c.,  and 
Adam,  a  Sacred  Drama,  from  the  Italian  of  Battista  Andreini, 
with  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Stebbing,  A.M. 
Two  elegantly  printed  volumes,  400  pages  each,  16mo.,  with 
beautiful  frontispieces.  $1  75. 

This  is  the  only  complete  American  edition. 

Morality  never  found  in  genius  a  more  devoted  advocate  than  Cowper,  nor 
has  moral  wisdom,  in  its  plain  and  severe  precepts,  been  ever  more  success- 
fully combined  with  the  delicate  spirit  of  poetry,  than  in  bis  works.  He 
was  endowed  with  all  the  powers  which  a  poet  could  want  who  was  to  be  the 
moralist  of  the  world — the  reprover,  but  not  the  satirist,  of  men— the  teacher 
of  simple  truths,  which  were  to  be  rendered  gracious  without  endangering 
their  simplicity. 

BURNS'    COMPLETE   POETICAL 
WORKS. 

The  complete  Poetical  Works  of  Robert  Burns,  with  Explanatory 
and  Glossarial  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by  James  Cur- 
rie,  M.D.  1  vol.  16mo.  $1  25. 

This  is  the  most  complete  edition  which  has  been  published,  and  contains 
the  whole  of  the  poetry  comprised  in  the  edition  lately  edited  by  Cunningham, 
as  well  as  some  additional  pieces  ;  and  such  notes  have  been  added  as  are  cal- 
culated to  illustrate  the  manners  and  customs  of  Scotland,  so  as  to  render  the 
whole  more  intelligible  to  the  English  reader. 

"  No  poet,  with  the  exception  of  Shakspeare,  ever  possessed  the  power  of 
exciting-  the  most  varied  and  discordant  emotions  with  such  rapid  transitions." 
—Sir  W.  Scott. 

MILTON'S    COMPLETE    POETICAL 
WORKS. 

The  complete  Poetical  Works  of  John  Milton,  with  Explanatory 
Notes  and  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Stebbing, 
A.M.     Beautifully  illustrated.     1  vol.  16mo.     $125. 
The  Latin  and  Italian  Poems  are  included  in  this  edition. 
Mr.  Stebbing's  notes  will  be  found  very  useful  in  elucidating  the  learned 
allusions  with  which  the  text  abounds,  and  they  are  also  valuable  for  the 
correct  appreciation  with  which  the  writer  directs  attention  to  the  beau- 
ties of  the  author. 

SCOTT'S    POETICAL   WORKS. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart. — Containing  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel,  Marmion,  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Don  Rode- 
rick, Hokeby,  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  Songs,  with  a  Life  of  the 
Author.  Uniform  with  Oowper,  Burns,  &c.  1  vol.  16mo  $125. 

"  Waker  Scott  is  the  most  popuiur  of  all  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  and  de- 
servedly so  He  describes  that  which  is  most  easily  and  generally  understood 
with  more  vivacity  anil  effect  than  any  other  writer.  His  style  H  clear,  flowing 
and  transparent ;  his  sentiments,  of  which  his  style  is  an  easy  and  natural  me 
dium,  are  common  to  him  with  his  readers." — Haxlitt. 


10        D.  Appleton  $  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works. 

GENERAL  HISTORY   OF  CIVILIZATION 

In  Europe,  from  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  to  the  French  Revolution. 
By  M.  Guizot,  Professor  of  History  to  the  Kaculty  des  Lettres  of  Paris. 
Printed  from  the  second  English  edition,  with  Occasional  Notes,  by  C  S. 
Henry,  D.D.,  of  New  York.    One  handsome  volume,  12mo.    $1  UO. 
The  third  edition  of  this  valuable  we  rk  has  just  appeared,  with  numer- 


Blackstone  asubject  of  such  peculiar  and  unbounded  praise ;  a  work  close- 
ly  condtri>ed,  .ncludmg  no'.hirig  useless  and  omitting  nothing  essential  • 
written  with  grace,  and  conceived  and  arranged  with  consummate  ability. 

THE   NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  SOCIETY 

IN  THE  BARBAROUS  AND  CIVILIZED  STATE. 
An  Essay  towards  Discovering  the  Origin  and  Course  of  Human  Improve- 

rnent.     By  W.  Cooke  Taylor,  LL.D.,  &c.,  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 

Uandsor  .ely  printed  on  fine  paper.    2vols.  12mo     $2  25. 

"The  design  of  this  work  is  to  determine,  from  an  examination  of  the 
various  forms  in  which  society  has  been  found,  what  was  the  origin  of 

vilization  ;  and  under  what  circumstances  those  attributes  of  humanity 
which  in  one  country  become  the  foundation  of  social  happiness,  are  in  an- 
other perverted  to  the  production  of  general  misery.' 

CARLYLE   ON    HISTORY  &,  HEROES. 

On  Heroes,  Hero- Worship,  and  the  Heroic  in  History.  Six  Lectures,  re- 
ported with  Emendations  and  Additions,  by  Thomas  Carlyle.  author  of 
the  French  Revolution,  Sartor  Resartus,  <tc.  Elegantly  printed  in  1 
vol.  12mo.  Second  edition.  $1  00. 

"  And  here  we  must  close  a  work— such  as  we  have  seldom  seen  the 
like  of,  and  one  which  redeems  the  literature  of  our  superficial  and  manu- 
ictunng  period.    It  is  one  to  purify  our  nature,  expand  our  ideas,  and  ex- 
alt our  souls.    Let  no  library  or  book-room  be  without  it ;  the  more  it  is 
studied  the  more  it  will  be  esteemed."— Literary  Gazette. 

SOUTHEY'S    POETICAL   WORKS. 

The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  LL.D.  The  ten 
volume  London  edition  in  one  elegant  royal  8vo.  volume,  with  a  fine  por- 
trait and  vignette.  $3  50. 

*.*  This  edition,  which  the  author  has  arranged  and  revised  with  the 
same  care  as  if  it  were  intended  for  posthumous  publication,  includes  many 
pieces  which  either  have  never  before  been  collected,  or  have  hitherto  re- 
mained unpublished. 

SCHLEGEL'S    PHILOSOPHY   OF 
HISTORY. 

The  Philosophy  of  History,  in  a  course  of  Lectures  delivered  at  Vienna,  by 
Frederick  von  Schlegel,  translated  from  the  German,  with  a  Memoir  of 
the  Author,  by  J.  B'.  Robertson.  Handsomely  printed  on  fine  paper.  2 
vols.  12rno.  $2  50. 

THE  LIFE  OF  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON. 

Edited  by  his  son,  John  C.  Hamilton.    2  vols.  8vo.    $5  00. 
"We  cordially  recommend  the  perusal  and  diligent  study  of  these  vol- 
umes, exhibiting,  as  they  do,  much  valuable  matter  relative  to  the  Revo- 
lution, the  establishment  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  other  important 
events  in  the  annals  of  our  country."— .Yew- York  Review. 


12        D.  Appleton  $•  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works. 

HISTORY  OF    NAPOLEON    BONAPARTE^ 

Translated  from  the  French  of  M.  Laurent  De  LrArdechc,  Mem. 
ber  of  the  Institute  of  France.  Illustrated  with  Five  Hundred 
Spirited  Plates,  after  designs  by  Horace  Vernct,  an4  twenty 
Original  Portraits  of  the  most  distinguished  Generals  of  France. 
2  vols.  8vo.  $4  00. 
All  the  leading  journals  have  spoken  in  the  most  unqualified 

praise  of  this  work.     The  following  is  from  the  Boston  Traveller  : 

"Aa  a  chaste,  condensed,  faithful,  and  aceurale  memoir  of  the  Great  Captain,  it  is  worthy  of 
much  attention.  The  author  has  mainly  drawn  the  necessary  facts  of  his  history  from  the  letters, 
speeches,  manifestoes,  bulletins,  and  other  state  papers  of  Napoleon,  and  has  given  a  considerable 
Dumber  of  these  in  his  text. 

"  The  work  is  superior  to  the  lone  verbose  productions  of  Scott  and  Bourrienne— not  in  style 
alone,  but  in  truth— being  written  to  please  neither  Charles  X,  nor  the  English  ariitocracy—  but 

THE   BOOK  OF  THE   NAVY; 

Comprising  a  General  History  of  the  American  Marine,  and  parti- 
cular Accounts  of  all  the  most  Celebrated  Naval  Battles,  from  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  to  the  present  time,  compiled  from 
the  best  authorities.  By  John  Frost,  Professor  of  Belles  Lettres 
in  the  High  School  of  Philadelphia.  With  an  Appendix,  con- 
taining Naval  Songs,  Anecdotes,  &/c.  Embellished  with  nume- 
rous original  Engravings  and  Portraits  of  distinguished  Naval 
Commanders.  Complete  in  one  handsome  volume,  8vo.  $100. 

"  This  elegant  volume  is  dedicated  to  the  present  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  and  is  altogether  a  very 
faithful  and  historical  record.  It  comprises  twenty-two  chapters,  detailing  the  prominent  evenU 
cotuiected  wit':  !  ."  naval  history  of  i.lie  American  federal  republic.  To  the  narrative  is  subjoined 
an  appendix  ,  -,  nty  pages,  including  thirty-two  very  interesting  characteristic  anecdotes,  nine, 
teen  lyrical  poems,  and  a  minute  chronological  table  of  events  in  American  Naval  History.  It  it 
appropriately  adorned  with  ste.'l  engraved  "portraits,  numerous  vignettes,  and  full  page  representa- 
tions of  various  conflicts.  The  Book  of  the  Navy  deserves,  and  will  doubtless  have,  a  very  extend- 
ed circulation."— National  Intelligencer. 

INCIDENTS  OF   A  WHALING   VOYAGE. 

To  which  is  added  Observations  on  the  Scenery,  Manners,  and 
Customs,  and  Missionary  Stations  of  the  Sandwich  and  Society 
Islands,  accompanied  by  numerous  plates.     By  Francis  Allyn 
Olmsted.     One  handsome  volume,  12mo.     f  1   50. 
PICTORIAL   VICAR    OF  WAKEFIELD. 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  By  Oliver  Goldsmith.  Elegantly  illus- 
trated with  nearly  200  Engravings,  making  a  beautiful  volume, 
octavo,  of  about  350  pages.  $1  25. 

"We  love  to  turn  back  over  these  rich  old  classics  of  our  own  language,  and  rejuvinate  ourselves 
by  the  never-failing  associations  which  a  re-perusal  always  calls  up.  Let  any  one  who  has  not 
read  this  immortal  tale  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  try  the  experiment,  and  we  will  warrant,  that  he 
rise*  up  from  the  task— the  pleasure  we  should  have  said— a  happier  and  a  better  man."  -Sav.  Rep. 

PICTORIAL    ROBINSON    CRUSOE. 

The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  By  Daniel  De 
Foe.  With  a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  and  an  Essay  on  his 
Writings,  illustrated  with  nearly  500  spirited  Engravings,  by 
the  celebrated  French  artist,  Grandville,  forming  one  elegant 
volume,  octavo,  of  500  pages.  $1  75. 

Was^thereever  anything  written  by  mere  man  that  the  reader  wished  longer,  except  Robinson 

,ol  only  the  most  charming  of  booki  but 


Crusoe,  Don  Quixotic,  and  the  Pilgrim's  Progress?"—  F>r  John, 
"  How  happy  that  this,  the  most  moral  of  rom. 


the  most  instructive."— A.  Chalmers. 


D.  Appleton  $  Co.'s  Catalogue  of  Valuable  Works.        13 

A  DICTIONARY  OF  ARTS,   MANUFACTURES  AND  MINES, 

Containing  a  clear  exposition  of  their  Principles  and  Practice.    By  Andrew 
Ure,  M.D.,  F.R  S.,  &c.  &c.     Illustrated  with  One  Thousand  Two  Hundred 
and  Forty-one  Engravings  on  wood.     Containing  upwards  of  1300  closely- 
printed  pages,  forming  one  very  thick  volume  8vo.,  strongly  bound  in 
sheep.    $5  00.    JET"  The  same  work  bound  in  two  volumes.    $5  50. 
In  every  pr.int  of  view  a  work  like  the  present  can  but  be  regarded  as  a  benefit  done  to  theo- 
retical and  practical  science,  to  commerce  and  industry,  and  an  important  addition  to  a  spe- 
cies of  literature  the  exclusive  production  of  the  present  century,  and  the  present  state  of 
peace  and  civilization.    Criticisms  in  favour  of  its  intrinsic  value  to  all  classes  of  tlie  commu- 
nity might  lie  produced,  if  space  would  permit,  from  upwards  of  three  hundred  of  the  leading 
journals  in  Europe  and  this  country. 

"  This  useful  and  most  excellent  work,  which  has  been  issuing  in  Monthly  Numbers,  for 
some  time  past,  is  now  completed.  It  is  a  publication  of  most  derided  and  permanent  value, 
one  of*  Inch  no  library  should  be  destitute.  It  is  tilled  with  information  upon  precisely  those 
•ubjei-ts  with  which  every  one  should  be  familiar,  upon  the  practical  operations  of  the  arts, 
the  scientific  principles  and  processes  of  mechanics,  and  the  history  of  all  improvements  in 
every  department  of  Science  ir.d  Industry.  The  author  is  a  man  of  eminence  and  ability,  and 
the  woik  enjoys  the  highest  reputation  in  England,  where  it  was  first  pubhshld.  We  trust 
it  will  be  welcomed  by  the  intelligent  of  every  class  of  our  citizens.  It  is  neatly  printed,  and 
illustrated  with  upwards  of  twelve  hundred  engravings."— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

HYDRAULICS   AND    MECHANICS. 

A  Descriptive  and  Historical  Account  of  Hydraulic  and  other  Machines  for 
Raising  Water,  including  the  Steam  and  Fire  Engines,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern ;  with  Observations  on  various  subjects  cot  nected  with  the  Mechanic 
Arts  :  including  the  Progressive  Development  of  the  Steam-Engine, 
Descriptions  of  every  variety  of  Bellows,  Piston,  and  Rotary  Pumps, 
Fire  Engines,  Water  Rams,  Pressure  Engines,  Air  Machines,  Eolipiles, 
&,c.  Remarks  on  Ancient  Wells,  Air  Beds,  Cog  Wheels,  Blowpipes, 
Bellows  of  various  People,  Magic  Goblets,  Steam  Idols,  and  other  Ma- 
chinery of  Ancient  Temples.  To  wruch  are  added  Experiments  on  Blow- 
ing and  Spouting  Tubes,  and  other  original  Devices,  Nature's  modes  and 
Machinery  for  Raising  Water.  Historical  notices  respecting  Siphons, 
Fountains,  Water  Organs,  Clopsydrae,  Pipes,  Valves,  Cocks,  &c.  In  five 
books.  Illustrated  by  nearly  Three  Hundred  Engravings.  By  Thomas 
E  wbank.  One  handsomely  printed  volume  of  six  hundred  pages.  $3  50. 

HODGE  ON  THE  STEAM-ENGINE. 

The  Steam-Engine,  its  Origin  and  Gradual  Improvement,  from  the  time  of 
Hero  to  the  present  day,  as  adapted  to  Manufactures,  Locomotion  and 
Navigation.  Illustrated  with  Forty-eight  Plates  in  full  detail,  numerous 
Wood  Cuts,  <fcc.  By  Paul  R.  Hodge,  C.E.  1  vol.  folio  of  plates,  and 
letter-press  in  8vo.  $10  00. 

LAFEVER'S   MODERN    ARCHITECTURE. 

Beauties  of  Modern  Architecture  .  consisting  of  Forty-eight  Plates  of  Ori- 
ginal Designs,  with  Plans,  Elevations  and  Sections,  also  a  Dictionary 
of  Technical  Terms ;  the  whole  forming  a  complete  Manual  for  the  Prac 
tical  Builder.  By  M.  Lafever,  Architect.  1  vol.  large  8vo.  half  bound. 
$6  00. 

LAFEVER'S  STAIR-CASE   AND    HAND-RAIL 
CONSTRUCTION. 

The  Modem  Practice  of  Stair-case  and  Hand-rail  Construction,  practically 
explained,  in  a  series  of  Designs.  By  M.  Lafever,  Architect.  With 
Plans  and  Elevations  for  Ornamental  Villas.  Fifteen  Plates.  1  vol. 
large  8vo.  $3  00. 

The  works  of  Lafever  are  pronounced  by  practical  men  to  be  the  most  useful  ever  pub- 
lished. 

THE    PRINCIPLES  OF  DIAGNOSIS. 

By  Marshall  Hall,  M.D.  F.R  S.,  <fcc.    Second  Edition,  with  many  improve- 
ments.   By  Dr.  John  A.  Sweet.     1  vol.  8vo.    $2  00. 


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NOV06  1989 


DATE  DUE 


RIGD  APR  13 


GAYLORD 


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